


The Lazarus Machine

by Kelouisa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Bow Street Runners, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, NapoleonicWars!John, Regency Romance, Regency!Sherlock, Science, Slow Build, casefic, natural philosophers, they're married, various body parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 76
Words: 108,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelouisa/pseuds/Kelouisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Harold Watson requires his younger brother John to marry for money.  The wealthy husband-to-be?  None other than Sherlock Holmes.  Before the wedding can occur, Sherlock gets swept up in an investigation of random found body parts and strange letters addressed to him via Bow Street.  </p>
<p>As John tags along on the investigation, getting to know his new husband, he finds himself in a London full of mad natural philosophers, rejected suitors, one overbearing brother-in-law, and more terrifying experiments than he could ever imagine. </p>
<p>Definite slash, though a slow build.  Taking Sherlock back in time instead of forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> During NaNoWriMo this year, I had three different ideas for my book: a Sherlock fan fiction; a romance novel; or a zombie novel. Someone said to combine all three ideas. I said, "No way," and laughed but my mind twisted around to the idea. There really aren't zombies, though, but there are lots of disembodied body parts. Why I went Regency at first, I couldn't really say. I could have gone Victorian Romance, but Regency is working out surprisingly well as far as the plot. 
> 
> I must note here that I have ended up doing a LOT more research than I ever imagined. Clothes, weaponry, science, London layout and bridges. Regent's Park wasn't Regent's Park in the Regency era yet, for instance. Some of the research I deliver faithfully, some I ignore outright (a Black Maria wouldn't be called that for something like 20 years, but I just like the phrase), and some I probably screw up. Lestrade works as a Bow Street runner because there was no Scotland Yard yet. 
> 
> Lastly (for now) in my world marriage between two men is as universally accepted as marriage between a man and a woman or two women. I don't comment much about it, only that it was commonly done in the gentry to ensure a direct line of succession and to keep from too many legitimate heirs splitting the fortunes.
> 
> I've been posting the story on my blog as I've finished each section of chapters at http://kelouisa.wordpress.com/ but I shall catch up with that on here shortly, I hope. Still a WIP.

Captain John Watson, late of the 52nd Northumberland Fusilers, was in the upstairs sitting room when he heard his brother return from London. _So much for the peaceful afternoon._ John sighed and placed a marker in his book. He could sit here and wait for Harry to come to him, or he could confront Harry directly.  


John's elder brother Harry had been recently in London for business, he'd said, though John knew that business was primarily wooing a young woman named Clara. What Harry hadn't mentioned before he left was that he'd taken the Gainesborough their Grandfather had bought with him. It wasn't the only thing missing.  


The attics were empty of anything salable, though John hadn't thought to even look until he wandered into the Peacock Room, his mother's old bedroom, and realized it had been stripped clear. Several other unused rooms were stripped of furnishings and antiques, things that had been on the Watson's estate for three generations. John had found the silver cupboard nearly bare except for the things they used on a regular basis.  


People had been missing, too, though not in a totally sinister way. When John was a child, the house was bustling with servants, guests, little entertainments. In the months he'd been home, there had been no guests, few visitors, and the staff had been cut back to those that were left behind when the family was not in residence. The stables were tended, though the horses kept were only the ones necessary to pull a coach. There were none left to simply ride, not that John could ride anyway, not with the stiffness in his leg, nor the fiery pains that occasionally erupted from hip to ankle.  


Since John had not seen many of these things packed up and removed, he could only assume they'd been gone long before his return home. He'd been ill and confined to his room for two months with only the cook to nurse him, but he thought he would have noticed entire rooms being carried out the front door.  


John had not expected this slow ruination after his interminable, miserable journey home from the France. He'd expected more of a welcome, more gratitude that he was alive, and a lot less heartbreak. Yes, Harry was glad his brother had not perished so soon after the death of their father, but John was a burden. John was doctor visits and medicine. John was questions about bare rooms and a mirror to the emptiness left behind.  


John's injury, illness, and sudden return home from war and career had been just another straw for the camel's back, and clearly Harry was weakening. The man spent most of his time in his study, papers spread before him, draining a decanter.  


But this, this last lie, was utterly abominable, so contemptible and dishonorable, John almost couldn't fathom it.  
Harry Watson had barely removed his greatcoat in the entryway before his younger brother came limping down the stairs, gripping his cane in one hand and the railing in the other.  


"Not now, John."  


"How could you sell my house, Harry?" John's grip on the stair rail was tighter than it needed to be for his support.  


"It wasn't yours. Father left it to me."  


"Father meant for me to have it. You knew that."  


"Father meant for me to allow you to live in it once you retired from the army. I had no knowledge that you would even make it back from the war. I needed the money. I sold it."  


John gasped and stopped just a few stairs from the bottom. This is the first time Harry had ever outright admitted he needed the money. John had known, he was not stupid, and had long since offered up the pittance paid by the government to its injured soldiers, but Harry had never once told him how dire his straits were.  


"You hoped I would never find out." _I hate you, Harry Watson. How could you?_  


"No, John, I hoped you would never find out." But Harry looked much more tired than vindictive when he said this. "Come into my study, John. We must talk."


	2. Chapter 2

Captain John Watson sat in his older brother's study. He no longer wore his uniform but he held himself with military precision. 

"Marriage?" 

"Yes, John," Harry replied shortly. "I'd do it myself but Clara's family has refused my suit." Not that her family had the funds to dower their daughter enough to meet Harry Watson's needs. He knew that, and somehow, they guessed that, too. They wouldn't throw away their perfect daughter and her healthy, if not estate-saving, dowry on a wastrel like Harry Watson. The Watsons were without funds and, more recently, without connections. Harry felt more and more spurned with every trip to London. 

Clara's father's refusal was not surprising, given the heavy whorls of exhaustion beneath Harry's eyes and the ever-present glass of port or sherry or Scotch whisky beneath his hand. Harry picked one up now, port by the color and time of day, and took a gulp. It was never a refined sip. 

"We need the money, John. The estate simply won't hold together without an influx of cash. I had to borrow to pay the estate taxes when father died, and those loans are quickly coming due. I've tightened the household budget as much as I dared to keep up a good front, but soon I'll have to borrow just to pay the staff that is left. I don't even know that there is anyone else who will lend to me." 

Harry continued to get more worked up, as if John was fighting him. "Who do we let go next? Which tenants have to try and pay more rent? Which parcels of land do we sell off just to keep afloat, only to wonder where the payment is coming from next month? I could sell everything and we'd be debt free, but we'd have nothing left at all." 

"Harry, please, I'm not fighting. I understand." 

The look on Harry's face told John that his acquiescence was almost worse. 

"Of course you do, John. You were ever the dutiful one, the obedient one. You made father proud. If you hadn't been off at war when he fell ill, he would have made you his heir instead of me. He didn't trust me to take care of things, and here I am, proving him right." 

"Father didn't take care of things properly, either, Harry, if he left the estate with enough debt to be bankrupted by estate taxes." 

"You're just saying that to try to make me feel better, John. It won't work. You were always his favorite and I was just his damned failure." 

John sighed. No matter what he said to Harry, he wouldn't be able to win this age-old fight. Long before John had gone to university, to medical lectures, to war, he and Harry tended towards animosity. Harry hadn't liked the shining golden boy born to his father's second wife, and John hadn't liked the unending roughhousing inflicted upon him by his elder brother since before John was able to defend himself. They'd been separated by age, school, and the army, but John was back at the estate now, with no one but Harry and the servants, contributing his meager army pension to the running of the household. 

"So, which wealthy, illustrious family would willingly thrust one of their unfortunate children into such a household?" 

Harry glared at him. 

"Don't be daft, John. One that needs a husband for their embarrassment of a second son." 

"Embarrassment?" 

"Some scandal at university, perhaps. I have no idea. We are not of a level fit to gossip about it." Harry sounded rather snide, as if he'd tried to find out details and been rudely rebuffed. "It hardly matters, with the amount of money they're offering." John didn't reply – it wouldn't make any difference if he did. Harry had found a solution, somehow, and would cling to it desperately, through any sort of dissuasion. John could protest, refuse, be thrown out to fend for himself on his pension and his cane, and be reminded daily that he'd let everyone down. The livelihood of many people relied on the estate, and refusal would throw their fortunes to the wind. 

"They'll be in from London tomorrow afternoon," Harry informed him, with a gesture of dismissal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of my research began here with proper forms of address. It's complicated and I've probably mucked it up, but Mycroft would have been referred to by his title, which I have given as Sherrinford. So, depending on the focus of the chapter, and the speaker, I've addressed him as Lord Sherrinford or Mycroft, though Sherlock would have referred to him as Sherrinford or some diminutive like Sherry, but Sherlock is Sherlock, so he calls his brother Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I will surely die if you leave me to rot in this hovel." 

"The Watson's estate is hardly a hovel. And before you spout off all the signs of neglect, do remember I am not blind." Mycroft Holmes, Lord Sherrinford, knew better than to try to curb his brother into being civil. 

Sherlock huffed, but kept his observations to himself. 

The front door opened as their carriage pulled up. Sherlock trailed his older brother up the wide steps, past shrubbery that had not yet been either pruned or covered for winter. The steps had not been brushed of leaves this morning, and the stately butler at the door noticed, but tried hard to ignore the embarrassment that crept up in front of such distinguished visitors. 

"I will wither away from boredom here. If you make me do this, I will never speak to you again." 

"Then do begin immediately, Sherlock." 

Sherlock sulked in response, following his brother into the foyer, his sharp eyes darting everywhere. Baroque vase, dust in the crevices. Either a lazy household or not enough maids to spare on the details. The house was quiet, no dogs barking at the unfamiliar carriage, no maids tittering at footmen, no ground crew raking the stones in the drive. The few paintings on the wall were amateur; talented, perhaps, but still amateur. Either the work was hung due to sentimentality for the artist or the more expensive works usually boastfully displayed were sold and the bare spots hidden with inexpensive flotsam. Combination? A lack of money. Obvious, given Mycroft's long lecture (he said discussion) on the interminable trip here, so Sherlock kept his observations blessedly to himself. 

A man started down the stairs, one hand grasping a sturdy cane, the other arm resting from elbow to fingertip on the bannister. His hair was a dark blond, his height average, boots polished. He held his head upright despite his reliance on both cane and bannister. He had a kind face, if stoic and serious. His eyes took in the two gentlemen in the foyer as he descended. 

Another man, slightly older, darker haired, tired, no, hungover, entered the foyer from the left. Study door. They were meant to be announced, but the awkward timing of his brother on the stairs meant Sir Harold must greet them in the foyer to make proper introductions. Formality, ridiculous. Sherlock's lip crooked up in a mild sneer. Appearances were worthless. 

"Lord Sherrinford, we are quite honored by your visit." Harry offered the elder of the two men in their foyer a short bow, getting little more than an imperious nod of the head in return. 

"Sir Harold Watson, my brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the elder motioned behind him where Sherlock was still busy taking in every minute detail of the entryway. Apparently he took in enough detail of the people in the room, as well, for his only words were directed at John, though they had not yet been introduced. 

"Waterloo or Quatre Bras?" 

The man who had finally descended to stand behind his brother started. 

"Quatre Bras." 

"You were ill." 

"Yes, enteric fever." The eyes had opened in wonderment. Interesting, thought Sherlock. 

"Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount of Sherrinford, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my brother, Captain John Watson, late of the 52nd Northumberland Fusilers." 

Sherlock stared at John, taking in every detail of the small captain as he made his bow to his brother and shifted his cane from one hand to the other. His hand was steady when he stuck it out for Sherlock to shake. 

"You left for war at least four years ago, for that is how long that particular waistcoat pattern fell out of fashion. Clearly the money for new was not available when you returned home, and your old clothes were not worn enough to justify replacing so you continue to wear them. 

"You must have enjoyed being a soldier, for that length of service means you stayed when you could have been reassigned elsewhere. There was nothing for you at home, or perhaps you felt needed where you were." 

Sherlock had waited longer than typically polite before grasping John's outstretched hand in greeting. John had been too surprised to pull it back when Sherlock had opened his mouth. 

"Oh, a surgeon's hands. That is the thing. You felt you were needed out there. Surely you were. Steady hands, steady nerves, skill with a scalpel and saw. Did you keep track of your success rate? I'd be interested to know." 

"No, sorry," John stuttered. "Field hospital. It often went too quickly to keep track." 

"Pity." 

Sherlock's eyes moved over Harry and he opened his mouth again. 

"Brother, perhaps your observations are better left unsaid for now," Mycroft intervened. It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to spill what was so obvious about Harry and spoil the forthcoming contract negotiations. 

"Yes, yes, please come into the downstairs drawing room. I'll ring for tea, shall I?" Harry seemed spurred into action by Lord Sherrinford, burst out of whatever thoughts he'd been having. He gestured the two men into their receiving room, following and leaving John to limp along behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The same meeting, only from John's point of view.

John descended the staircase slowly. The gentlemen in the foyer were striking, each more intimidating than the other. The elder was auburn-headed, with pale skin that would likely freckle if he let it, but something about his manner said that he'd never allow something as insignificant as the sun damage his skin that way. He had penetrating eyes, much like a hawk, bored but always on the watch for some sign of weakness. The younger was as fair of skin, but his hair was ebony and wild. As John watched, Sherlock whirled his greatcoat from his shoulders, and gracefully over the arm of their butler. Lack of coat revealed a long, narrow body; he was incredibly tall and his thinness only emphasized that fact. He seemed stretched, so thin and narrow, though tight breeches indicated he was quite fit. He had his brother's eyes; they clearly missed nothing. The pair were quite astounding. 

Harry burst in to make introductions in the foyer. Before the ritual of rank and introduction could be completed, the raven-haired man burst into words. 

"Waterloo or Quatre Bras?" 

John's limp could have been anything, a childhood injury or deformity from birth. He could have been thrown from a horse or fallen down the stairs. The man in front of him simply wanted to know during precisely which battle he'd been injured. 

"Quatre Bras," he answered, amazed. 

"You were ill." 

"Yes, enteric fever." 

Harry finished his introductions, clearly unnerved. The elder was Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount of Sherrinford. The younger was named Sherlock Holmes. Unusual names for those that must be quite unusual men. 

John made his bow to Lord Sherrinford. The man seemed to inspect him up and down rather than bowing or nodding in return. John offered the younger brother a hand to shake, switching his cane to his left hand in the process. He faltered for a second, wondering if he ought to have bowed, though neither brother indicated that the younger brother as well held a title. 

Sherlock Holmes did not take his hand. Instead he further proclaimed a half dozen facts, knowing… well, knowing _John_ quite exactly. Then he took John's hand in his and announced a few more. 

Their odd conversation was interrupted by Lord Sherrinford's disapproval and Harry took the break to usher them all into the drawing room. 

And somehow, just then, John realized that this tall, bluff man was intended to be his husband.


	5. Chapter 5

Tea went rather appallingly. John silently observed the restless Sherlock, who only sat long enough to sip his tea and roll his eyes at his elder brother. Once he'd stood and begun to prowl around the room, John felt a little more comfortable examining the man in more than peeks from behind his lashes. Sherlock stared so forthrightly at him that he found he could not quite return the gaze. But now that he was facing away, peering out the windows, he could look at him and not be so observed doing so. 

Of course, Lord Sherrinford could clearly see him, but John didn't quite realize that, so taken as he was with Sherlock. 

Sherlock was a striking man, to be sure. Tall, nearly a head taller than John. His jet hair curled thickly about his head and not in any of the overdone pompous styles of the day. His jaw was shaven, his skin all the more pale and marble-like framed with his dark sideburns and his amethyst cravat. His eyes, his smoke-grey eyes, were the most intense John had ever seen. When they turned on you, they took you apart, piece by piece. He saw the skill of John's hands in a moment, deciphered the age of his clothes, and pinpointed within three days precisely when John had been injured. 

It was rather amazing. 

"Your mother died when you were a small boy," Sherlock suddenly rounded the sofa and directed himself at Harry. "You took it hard, especially when your father remarried so soon after, barely out of proper mourning I'd wager, and the new wife had John here." 

"Sherlock, we talked about this. Leave it alone." Lord Sherrinford stood, as if his presence held any sway on his brother's tongue. John could clearly see that it wouldn't, that it hadn't ever. 

"No, go on," Harry said. "I've heard about this. I'm curious to see it for myself." 

"Sherlock, no," Lord Sherrinford intoned, but Sherlock's eyes blazed with triumphant glee. 

"John's mother died early as well, probably during childbirth but not his; he was old enough to just remember her, but your father did not remarry after that one. That made you angry, Harry, for your own mother to be put aside so quickly and John's mother to be mourned for the rest of your father's life. 

"John was your father's golden boy. I mean, just look at him. He's lovely. Must be the spitting image of his mother, for he looks nothing at all like you or the portrait above the mantel." 

John and Harry flushed for very different reasons. 

"You, however, let the anger fester and worry at you. It's why you drink far too much now and why John is being forced into a marriage of convenience. Your convenience, mind you, Harry Watson. He's always covered for you in the past, held you in much higher esteem than you deserve, and that's why he's going through this marriage without complaint now. He thinks it will help you, Harry, but I'm not so sure. And you certainly don't deserve his loyalty." 

"Sherlock, enough." Lord Sherrinford was thunderous. 

"That's hardly enough!" 

Sherlock fumed, crossing his arms over his chest, face to face with a very angry Mycroft. 

"Mr. Holmes, if you please." The two Holmes turned furious eyes at John, their cutting gazes meant for each other and not for him. "Mr. Holmes, might you take a turn around the room with me?" 

John had not stood to make his offer, had not the time to struggle up from the settee. His voice seemed to deflate Sherlock's fury, and the man came forward and grasped John's elbow to help him stand. John tried to smile politely at him for the gesture, but he hated it. Still, he guided Sherlock to the other end of the sitting room where they could speak lowly without being overheard and Mycroft could make his apologies to a purple-faced Harry. 

"That was brilliant. How do you do it?" 

"What?" Clearly Sherlock had expected another response, a quiet shaming perhaps. 

"It was amazing. How did you figure out all that? I mean, the war, so many of us have been to war, it's a safe guess." Sherlock looked to disagree on that point, but he let it go. "But our mothers, our father, our relationship, that's astonishing. You were exactly right." 

"You're, you're pleased." Now Sherlock was the one astonished. 

"To have Harry put rightly in his place for once? Yes, quite." 

And Sherlock looked once more at this compact army doctor who smiled at him. Who was amazed by him. 

And if anything in the world could make him speechless, it was Captain John Watson.


	6. Chapter 6

After tea was drunk and formal pleasantries re-engaged, Harry invited Lord Sherrinford into his study to begin preliminary negotiations. Sherlock strode along behind them as if he'd been invited, though John was well aware that their presence was unnecessary to the proceedings and was likely unwanted as well. Still, he limped after Sherlock with the hope of further entertainment. 

Sherlock draped himself over the worn leather sofa, clearly taking in the detail of the new location. Harry had been about to seat himself behind his desk, but he seemed to change his mind and went to the sideboard instead. 

"Brandy, Lord Sherrinford? Mr. Holmes?" 

"Thank you, no," Lord Sherrinford demurred, no matter that his polite mask couldn't quite hide his disapproval as Harry poured himself a deep snifter. 

"I must have a home in London," Sherlock announced. "I do not believe I can tolerate living anywhere else." 

"I, as well, prefer London." Sherlock glanced over at John, who had quietly deposited himself at the other end of Sherlock's sofa. He hadn't expected the man to speak up at all during the negotiations. "Can a portion of the provision be established for a London home? I realize it's an expensive city, but it needn't be large." 

"I must have room for a laboratory. And a housekeeper," Sherlock declared. 

"I shall have the estate agent begin a search for suitable lodgings right away. You make take Mrs. Hudson from the London house staff, if she agrees." Lord Sherrinford had discussed this with his brother more than long enough to officially acquiesce. Sherlock had refused to live as a married man in his brother's home, whether Mycroft was in residence or not. 

Sherlock did his best to hide his pleasure from his older brother. He had no success. He gloated. 

"I'll also be taking my library with me, so perhaps it ought to be a large house. One with ten bedrooms. Ten is a good, round number, don't you think?" 

"That many bedrooms, Sherlock, and people might expect you to entertain." Lord Sherrinford looked pleased when Sherlock's face twisted up in horror. 

"Very well, perhaps a smaller house will do. Is there anything you must have, John?" 

The men in the room looked at Sherlock in a bit of shock: Harry because Sherlock so casually used John's Christian name, though he obviously flouted convention by referring to his brother not by his title but by his Christian name as well, not to mention in every other conceivable way; Lord Sherrinford was clearly startled because Sherlock asked for an opinion other than his own; and John because his name sounded so wonderful from those lips. 

Sherlock noted Captain Watson was too uncomfortable to answer. Perhaps he didn't think he was earning this house, all this money from his brother. Sherlock, on the other hand, knew just how much he could milk from Mycroft's fat teat. "And vast gardens, Mycroft. I must have space to grow my poisons." 

Lord Sherrinford sighed. 

"I apologize for the vivacity of my brother…" 

"I hate it when you apologize for me. There is nothing to apologize for." 

"He does have some eccentric hobbies, one of which is experimenting with poisonous vegetation. I assure you that Captain Watson will not need to fear for his life. Sherlock does not test his poisons on humans." 

But when Lord Sherrinford really looked at the Watson brothers, he noted that Sir Harold had buried his nose into the papers in front of him, while Captain Watson appeared…intrigued. 

"Of course, John has nothing to fear, Mycroft! Were I a widower, I'd be back in your household and entirely under your thick thumb again." 

And there were Captain Watson's lips twitching up at the corners, trying not to laugh. 

_Fascinating_ , thought Lord Sherrinford.


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount Sherrinford entered the sitting room where John was taking tea alone. Sir Harold was still in his study, trying to make up for being passably sober all day. Going through all the financial statements from the estate was proving to be a grueling job, and worse to come were the statements of debt. Lord Sherrinford figured they could both use the break. 

Sherlock, having grown bored with the finer details of negotiation, had been wandering around the house and grounds for two hours now. Lord Sherrinford hoped he'd make it back before dinner. Or next Michaelmas, knowing Sherlock. 

When Lord Sherrinford entered the room, John leaned heavily on his cane to stand. 

"Oh, no need to stand for me, Captain Watson, as we are soon to be family." 

"I prefer not to be coddled, Lord Sherrinford." 

He allowed John to make him a stiff bow. "May I sit with you, Captain Watson?" 

"Of course. Tea?" John lowered himself back into his chair, resting his cane against the arm and stretching out his stiff leg in front of him. 

John wasn't sure if Lord Sherrinford would view their shabby furniture as distasteful, but the elegant man sat down looking like he owned the place. For all the money Lord Sherrinford was expending in the marriage contract, it would be foolish for John to deny that, in essence, he did. 

"I do hope Mr. Holmes has not gotten lost on the grounds." 

"Don't worry yourself, Captain Watson. Sherlock does not get lost, even when you really try." 

The maid in the corner moved to pour Lord Sherrinford a cup of tea. If John had not received the tray only a few minutes before, he would have ordered a fresh pot. Either way, though, it was unlikely their tea would be as exotic as the tea served at the Holmes' estate. Of course, Lord Sherrinford was too much of a diplomat to complain. Maybe John wanted his future brother-in-law to complain. Sherlock would have let his displeasure be known. He was nothing if not completely, blatantly, forthright. 

Lord Sherrinford, however, was untrustworthy, in John's opinion. He had the way about him of a man used to total control. This was not uncommon among the aristocracy; however, it was typically illusion. If the monarchy was in a state of more disarray, Lord Sherrinford, for all he admitted to "dabbling in the House of Lords," would have been called king-maker. As it was, he had the ear of the Regent and an ingratiating smile for everyone else. 

"I wanted to speak privately to you, Captain Watson." And there was that soulless smile. 

John met the other man's eyes quite directly. They were piercing and judgmental, and in no way friendly. 

"You see, our parents died when Sherlock was very young. I was barely of age to inherit the estate and I did not give Sherlock the discipline he needed. I allowed him to have too much sway over his schedule and his tutors, and once he'd gone off to school, I barely saw him. 

"I wasn't quite sure what to do with him. Not the army or navy, like many second sons. It was quite clear from the reports sent back from school that he would not thrive in such disciplined settings. He excelled at the studies which interested him, but his impiety made him eminently unsuitable for the church. 

"I've become resigned to the fact that Sherlock will receive his income from me. At least it grants me some control over his rashness. But I cannot be there for him all the time. I cannot watch him all the hours of the day. And I assure you, Captain Watson, I worry about my brother. Constantly." 

"So, a husband." 

"Yes, Captain Watson. A husband. Preferably a husband with strong character to exert some influence over my brother's… shall we say… impetuous tendencies. A husband, Captain Watson, who is very aware from whence his income derives." 

John tensed at this. 

"You wish to pay me to spy on your brother." 

"Spy is such a loaded term, Captain Watson. I prefer to say that I am entrusting the care of my very precious brother to you, and I am extending you a comfortable living so long as Sherlock stays safe." 

"Yet you do intend for me to report back to you." 

"A bit of familial mail would not be unwelcome." 

John could not resist the need to snort at this. 

"Lord Sherrinford," he started as diplomatically as possible, "duty has made it known that I will be Sherlock's partner for life. I will guard him as I would any choice in spouse; with my life, if necessary. I will do my best to fulfill my promise to honor and cherish him, as one should. But I will not report back to you as if you were my commanding officer. Sherlock does not deserve that subterfuge from a husband, even an arranged one." 

Lord Sherrinford's eyes hardened to cool blue-gray granite. 

"Very noble, Captain Watson. Perhaps I've chosen for Sherlock a better man than I thought if you are so loyal after only a few hours of acquaintance." 

John didn't reply. He stared stonily and rather impolitely at the man until Lord Sherrinford stood. 

"I have much correspondence that needs attending to before supper. If you'll excuse me." 

John briskly nodded his head, but this time he did not rise. 

Lord Sherrinford noticed.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock did not appear for the evening meal and Harry just picked at his food, refilling his wine goblet several times before John motioned for the servants to remove it from the room. Lord Sherrinford had elected to take his supper in his rooms and John was glad for that. He wasn't sure he wanted to speak to him again so soon, neither something serious nor witheringly dull small talk. Of course, company with Harry was less fun than a picnic out on the moors in February. 

"It's good of you to do this," Harry slurred. "I'm ever so sorry, John. That man, he's horrible. I wish I didn't have to beg you to do this. There was just so much to pay in debt and taxes when Father died…" He trailed off. "And Clara, darling Clara, she hasn't but a ha'penny to her name. I love her so, John, but we can't be together." 

Jesus, Harry was a dismal drunk. No wonder nothing ever got better if Harry couldn't see his way out of it. 

"Maybe after my marriage, when things are looking up and more in control, her family will reconsider your proposal." 

Harry went on like he hadn't even heard. 

"I could sell the house, the lands, but what happens when that is gone?" Gets taken away, he means. Debts, debts to someone, a moneylender perhaps. "We'll have nothing to live on. We'll be lucky to eke out some sort of living for ourselves. 

"Do you love anyone, John? Have I, in my disgrace, done you a broken heart?" 

"No, brother, worry not." John had courted girls in his younger years, the happier, brighter years, most recently in his dashing red uniform before heading to the war. And they had swooned for Captain Watson, charming, vivacious, always ready with a genuine compliment and a request to dance. But none of them were serious; none of the young girls or young men truly caught his eye. Too insipid, too flirtatious, too, too much. Frivolous, he supposed. There would be plenty of time to settle later, particularly since he was not the heir and did not need to provide children. 

Then army life was challenging, too challenging to think of things like love and marriage. John spent most of his waking hours thinking of his patients, his comrades. The occasional requirement of an Officer's Ball kept his social skills intact, but he could not help but feel they were a ridiculous waste of time. They were at war, a seemingly endless war with the rest of the world, and somehow there was time for celebration and jubilee while his men were sometimes starving and cold, injured and dying. 

Finally, there was the injury, John's injury. The one that would keep him from the army, from his career. At least he'd kept his leg – so many others lost limbs or eyes or scarred so badly they were fearsome to look at even healed. John had seen so many of these men, it broke his heart. He'd done his best for each and every soldier he encountered but he was home now. After Waterloo, most of them were home now. 

Once, he'd imagined after the war he'd start up a small practice, but his after-the-war started so abruptly, and his recovery took so much time, and Harry could barely hold things together, well, he'd utterly abandoned those plans. And now, now John had no real idea what his future held. He'd be married to a stranger, living, most likely, in London. His new family was gentry of a much higher caliber than his father, a landed country squire. His future was a world apart from where he'd ever imagined. 

Exposure to maudlin-drunk Harry was apparently contagious. John pushed away from the table, aware that Harry was still muttering on to himself and had never stopped. 

"Good night, Harry." 

His brother looked up in surprise, as if not realized he'd been talking to someone this whole time. 

"Good night, John." 

John left the dining room and paused in the hall. He didn't want to retire, not yet. He spotted a young footman with a covered tray dashing back towards the kitchen. He was one of the three servants that had arrived with the Holmes brothers. John wasn't sure if it was kindness or insult. The small staff the Watsons could barely afford to employ would be stretched taking care of the personal needs of the viscount and his brother; however, Lord Sherrinford knowing that in advance was shaming. 

"You, there," John called, trying to catch the man's attention before he disappeared. The footman stopped and stood at impeccable attention. 

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir?" 

"Has Mr. Holmes returned to the house?" 

"Yes, sir, an hour since. I believe he is in the conservatory." 

"Thank you." 

"Will that be all, sir?" 

"Has he had supper?" 

"Not that I am aware of, sir. Mr. Holmes rarely keeps regular mealtimes." 

Whatever was that supposed to mean? 

"Have the cook put together a cold plate and please bring it to him in the conservatory with some hot tea." 

"Right away, sir." 

The young man paused a bit, trying to judge whether John had finished with his orders or not. When John began to shuffle towards the conservatory, the footman quickly strode to the kitchens. 

The conservatory had been built onto the house only two generations ago. It was a small room, one John had used as a reading room as a teen and a playroom when he was a child. He was usually alone there; it was quiet and had a pleasant, foreign smell full of herbs and damp warmth. 

It was still much the same. John hadn't spent much time in here since he'd returned home. He more recently avoided it as he'd begun to fear that Harry would dismantle the room for the costly glass and metal framing. 

The sloped ceiling was interspersed with glass panels, revealing a clear night sky. John could remember a childhood of playing that the stars revealed through the glass panels was a sky revealed by the lush foliage of a jungle. He'd peek through the plants, pretend-slashing at the leaves with his imaginary sword, and explore the wild unknown. 

Sherlock Holmes had invaded his room, now. In fact, he'd sprawled out on one of the heavy marble benches, his greatcoat balled up as a pillow beneath his head. He was looking up towards the skylights, but John could see he wasn't really stargazing. 

"I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. Holmes. You weren't at supper, so I took the liberty to arrange for a plate from the kitchens for you." 

"Unnecessary," the sprawling figure drawled without moving. 

John wasn't quite sure what to reply. He stood awkwardly in silence a moment. 

"You'll want the tea, at least, surely. If you were walking about the estate and came straight into this unheated room, you must be chilled." John's intonation crept up at the end, a bit of a question. 

Sherlock's eyes flickered to him. 

"Yes, very well." He curled up and rolled into a sitting position, but his long form was still rather languidly posed along the bench. His long legs were crossed and stretched toward John and he leaned back, propped up on his arms. He and John stared at each other for a long minute until the footman rattled the tea tray directly behind John and he moved, breaking the spell. 

"Thank you." 

"Lewis, sir." The young footman set the tray on a small nearby table with a flourish. 

"Thank you, Lewis." 

The young man quite expertly prepared Sherlock's cup of tea. There was a second cup on the tray. 

"One for you, too, sir?" John paused. 

"Oh, do sit down, John," Sherlock ordered, with a hint of smile around his lips no matter how abrupt the words. 

"Yes, I suppose so, then." 

John made himself as comfortable as possible on a cold iron chair near the tea table. The footman finished serving him and exited the room, likely to wait outside the door should he be needed again. 

John continued to watch Sherlock, who had done little more than take a small sip of tea and set the cup and saucer on the bench beside him. 

"You're not hungry? I see Mrs. Richardson has plied you with some jam tarts. I couldn't get enough of them when I was a child." 

"Do have some then, John, for my appetite isn't nearly as appreciative of them as yours." Despite that, Sherlock was soon tempted and took a mouse-sized nibble on the corner of one. Three more soon disappeared. 

"I assume you wish to talk?" 

"That's what one normally does with company, isn't it?" 

"I would have no idea. I strive to avoid polite company at all costs." 

"Oh? And what about impolite company?" 

Sherlock laughed at John's forwardness. "Oh, I'm sure the company I keep would be deemed by Mycroft as most impolite and inappropriate." 

"Is the company you keep the reason your brother thinks you should marry?" 

John was genuinely curious, but he hadn't expected Sherlock's face to shut down and his mouth to tighten. 

"Has he ordered you to keep a tight rein on me, then?" John didn't answer. "I expect he has. All he cares for is power and the proper image of things. It is understandable that he'd want a loyal spy to keep watch over his shockingly uncouth embarrassment of a brother." 

"I apologize, Mr. Holmes. I seem to have stepped into a puddle of which I knew not the depth." 

"Why do you call me Mr. Holmes when I call you John? 

The change in course startled John and he had to think about his answer. 

"It's impolite to assume familiarity." 

"Do you feel slighted when I do so?" 

"No." _It's quite nice, actually._

"Then call me Sherlock. After all, we are rather betrothed, are we not?" Sherlock's voice grew lower and John felt a rather embarrassing flutter in his stomach.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock wasn't nearly as annoyed as he thought he'd be when John invaded his sanctum with tea and food. Of course, it wasn't Sherlock's conservatory, and the way John looked around the place, it was likely John's sanctum long before Sherlock had claimed it. 

The quiet man put him on edge, sort of, or pulled him away from the edge. Sherlock wanted to talk to him, or listen to him. Shocking, that second one. John had no necessary information about science or a mystery or a puzzle. Yet Sherlock wanted to hear him speak. So Sherlock ate, because it seemed to please John, to make him more comfortable. And then Sherlock realized what John must have been occupied with while Sherlock was off exploring this afternoon. 

"Is the company you keep the reason your brother thinks you should marry?" 

Of course it was. Obvious, he wanted to say. Mycroft's fingerprints were all over this man. He ought to remember that, to not allow himself the ease. 

"Has he ordered you to keep a tight rein on me, then?" John remained inscrutably silent. The conversation happened, even if John did not wish to admit it. "I expect he has. All he cares for is power and the proper image of things. It is understandable that he'd want a loyal spy to keep watch over his shockingly uncouth embarrassment of a brother." 

"I apologize, Mr. Holmes. I seem to have stepped into a puddle of which I knew not the depth." 

Sherlock waved the entire conversation away from his head and changed the subject. He would come up with a way to get even with Mycroft if it was the last thing he did. 

But first, what to do about Captain John Watson? Was he going to prove a help or hindrance to the work? He seemed thoughtful, meek even. The years at war, though, and a certain… presence made Sherlock wonder otherwise. 

"Why do you call me Mr. Holmes when I call you John?" 

The abrupt change in conversation flustered the man only momentarily. 

"It's impolite to assume familiarity." 

"Do you feel slighted when I do so?" John didn't act offended. Sherlock liked to offend people as a matter of course. Provocation more adequately displayed their true selves. 

"No." 

"Then call me Sherlock. After all, we are rather betrothed, are we not?" Sherlock's let his voice dip lower and was pleased when John didn't appear to know what to say. In fact, he excused himself shortly after and left Sherlock to his supper plate and cold tea. 

Sherlock nibbled on another tartlet and considered the best way to make an ally of Captain John Watson.


	10. Chapter 10

John crawled under the thick covers of his bed that night with little promise of sleep. The man he was to marry was unusual, extraordinary. More changeable than the wind. One second he was annoyed, the next, nearly flirtatious. Perhaps he was just awkward and unsure of how to act; John certainly was. Still, John didn't get the impression that Sherlock Holmes thought too much about what others thought of him. 

John had gone in search of his company tonight, he thought, to get to know his intended a little better but the man was a mystery and John had no idea how to talk to him, what to say. What did he learn so far? Sherlock and his brother got along less well than John and Harry. Sherlock had a much more forthright personality, brilliant and demonstrative of that fact. And last, something _had_ happened to make Lord Sherrinford demand that his brother marry and Sherlock wasn't going to volunteer the information. He was upset by it. How very curious. 

John sighed and turned his head to the side and imagined the man in bed next to him. He'd be on his side, head propped up on his hand, covers pulled up halfway over his bare alabaster chest. He'd have that twinkle in his eye, a playful grin on his lips. He might reach one hand towards John, his husband. He'd say his name, "John," in that voice that made John's insides writhe like a happy puppy. 

_God, John, stop it_ , he scolded himself. _Don't start fantasizing. You don't know that he will ever choose to share a bed with you._ While socially and financially fortuitous marriages between men were common, particularly among the aristocracy, the rules of marital intimacy did not apply. If they both chose to do so, they could share a bed, share love. More frequently, though, there were mistresses and illegitimate families, nearly separate lives. Marriage between men, so often younger brothers, preserved the elder brother's direct line of inheritance, since there would be no legitimate issue to divide the estate or monies. 

There would be no children born of this union. If John wanted children, he would have to go elsewhere. And what sort of life would that be for them? As a couple, they could foster the children of a relative, perhaps, or take in a ward. Did Sherlock even like children? Did he already father some? Could that be the scandal his brother so desperately wanted to tamp down? 

John wondered what Sherlock Holmes thought about him. What such a dynamic man thought about being married to a man who couldn't easily descend a stair. Would he want a man whose leg was twisted with scars, who would always limp, who couldn't sleep the night. They couldn’t share a bed without injury, probably, even were Sherlock so inclined. 

John blew out the candle by the side of the bed, always worried that his restless sleep would knock into a lamp or candle and start a fire. The glowing coals in the fireplace offered some light in the middle of the night, but not always enough for John to awaken from his nightmares and realize exactly where he was. A lamp would be better, but John worried. 

This line of hypotheticals vastly dampened any fantasy John might have indulged in about Sherlock. He turned onto his back, one arm above his head, and sighed. What would life be like with Sherlock Holmes?


	11. Chapter 11

Despite a sleepless night, John woke early with unusual energy. Perhaps he was just anxious to see what would come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth today, but John slid out of bed as soon as he jerked the bell pull. His bad leg almost crumpled as he tucked his feet into slippers and wrapped his thick dressing gown about himself. 

The maid who answered seemed surprised to see him shuffling about already. She set his tea tray by the fireplace and stirred up the coals. 

"I'll take my tea here, but I'll be breakfasting downstairs today, Abby." 

"Oh, yes, sir," she said about his change of plans. Captain Watson always broke his fast in his rooms; but of course, there was company, and when there wasn't, Sir Harold rarely showed his face until midday so there was little point. "I'll let Mrs. Richardson know." She bobbed a little curtsy and dashed out the door. 

Moments later, without being summoned, the butler Meade rapped at the door. He'd been helping John and Sir Harold dress since there was no one else anymore. John thought momentarily about tipping the staff generously with the wedding purse for all they'd put up with in the past months, years, probably, and their loyalty. He couldn’t even imagine how much would be enough. 

Lord Sherrinford – John would have to ask him to provide the traditional purse for the staff and villagers. Harry likely wouldn't have the funds yet and wouldn’t think to ask. 

John forced himself to pace back and forth in his room despite the pain in his leg. It was always worst at night. The cramps and spasms would wake him if the nightmares hadn't already. Sometimes he spent an hour or more hobbling back and forth in the dark before the pain eased enough for him to lie back down. 

Meade made short work of dressing John for the morning, once John had decided what he wanted to wear. And maybe Meade smiled just a bit too much at John's consideration of his appearance. In the end, he chose a dark blue waistcoat under a light brown jacket with buff breeches. Meade fussed a little with his cravat before making sure John found his way steadily enough down the stairs. 

Lord Sherrinford and Harry were already dining, though Harry didn't seem to be enjoying his toast and tea. There was much of importance to be discussed yet, despite Lord Sherrinford's innocuous and pleasant conversation. 

John was seated, bid the two good morning, and received his customary plate. Sherlock breezed in when his meal was half over. 

"Good morning, Sherlock," John ventured, only to be rewarded with a bright smile. 

"Good morning, John," was the hearty response. 

If John had spared a glance for Lord Sherrinford, he would have noticed quite a peculiar expression on the man's face. Sherlock tucked into his egg and toast without being urged, further annoying his brother with the normalcy of it. 

"Did you see the grounds sufficiently yesterday, Sherlock, or would you like a proper tour? Of course, Lord Sherrinford, you are welcome as well." To see what you are buying with all that money, John added to himself. But really, how could he be churlish and bitter about the Watson's rescue? 

"Mycroft won't come along, John. It may require exercise," Sherlock scoffed. Lord Sherrinford ignored his brother and replied smoothly. 

"I fear your brother and I have too many details to discuss regarding the marriage contracts, Captain Watson. We may well be closeted in the study the entire day. Thinking of all the work to be done wouldn't allow me to properly enjoy a countryside jaunt, but thank you." Harry just looked miserable, and John was a bit glad of that. 

"I, on the other hand, am dreadfully bored. Let's go." Sherlock jumped up from the table, stuffing the last of his toast into his mouth. John marveled on how energetic Sherlock was. Even now he tapped his foot as they waited for the butler to bring their outerwear. 

"I apologize if our hospitality is insufficient to keep you occupied." 

"Oh, don't be so stuffy, John. Etiquette is boring. I am away from the city, away from my experiments, away from life. Of course I'm bored. You shouldn't take it personally." 

John hadn't, not really, but he didn't know Sherlock well enough to know if he should have. 

"Do hurry, John," he said as soon as they were wrapped up against the late autumn chill. Sherlock darted out the doorway and down the steps, reminding John of a retriever he'd had as a teen. Harry hadn't said what happened to the dog while John was away, but he supposed he must have died. It seemed likely, one way or another, since Harry had disliked the spirited pup, and the feeling had been mutual. 

"I'm injured, Sherlock, you'll just have to learn to be patient." John felt surprised that he felt so comfortable calling Sherlock by his Christian name, even, and especially, after their short conversation the night before. He'd only had the privilege with a few childhood pals from the village and none since he'd gone away to school. 

Sherlock scoffed, but bounced at the foot of the steps as John made his careful way down them. 

"Nonsense, you are not injured. Your leg has been healing a six-month, so your scars are probably fading to pink. You've been taking long walks about the estate to help recover your strength after your bout of fever. Exercise only helps with the stiffness, even if it tires you still." 

"Very well," John chuckled. "I am not injured. Which direction do you prefer?" 

"You pick, John. I only explored the immediate area yesterday. Lead me somewhere you enjoy." 

"Very well. This way, then." 

John headed around the side of the manor house and then straight to the east where the meadows were harvested and quiet. There was a stream a few stiles that way and a pretty little woods had sprung up around it. It was the deep, dark forest of John's childhood, where he'd explored and played at Robin Hood with some of the town children. 

They walked in companionable silence for some time, Sherlock only opening his mouth to verify which crop was planted in which field, and sometimes narrate interesting facts about the hibernating wildflowers that grew along their way. John couldn't tell by their dry stems what they were, but Sherlock seemed certain. 

Sherlock vaulted over the stiles with a whoosh of his greatcoat, but paid great care that John would not stumble on his way. John said nothing about it and tried to change the topic even in his own mind. 

"So, we know why I agreed to this marriage, Sherlock, but why did you?" 

Sherlock had paused to pluck some remnants of clover from the ground. 

"Sheep?" he said. 

"What? Oh, yes, we graze sheep in this field sometimes. Did you hear my question?" 

"Why does anyone marry, John?" 

"Is that meant to be rhetorical?" 

"Freedom, John! Is that not what we all want? Freedom to live our lives, to come and go as we please, to direct our surroundings to our greatest pleasures. Mycroft promised me a home of my own, out from under his watchful gaze, and if I'm to be saddled with a keeper, so be it!" 

John wondered vaguely if Sherlock always spoke with exclamation marks. 

"I'll try not to restrict your pleasures, then." _Of course Sherlock didn't want this marriage, John, neither of you did. Don't be stupid._

"Oh, don't be that way, John. Besides, we both know that Mycroft has already asked you to spy on me. You don't need to confirm it." 

"That doesn't mean I agreed to do so." 

Sherlock abandoned his long stride and John continued walking quite past him. For the first time, he was ahead of the man, as much as he was guiding the tour. 

After a moment, Sherlock jogged to catch up to him. This time, the hand he placed on John's elbow was much more pleasant. 

"You said 'no' to Mycroft?" 

"I take it that doesn't happen often. He seemed put out, even through that polite mask of his." 

"I've never known anyone to do so, except me." 

They resumed walking, Sherlock silent and lost in thought for several minutes. 

"I never wished to marry. I've always found young ladies, even if they might have had sharp minds, bred and nurtured to be simpler than their idiotic husbands. I cannot tolerate insipid conversation. And the very few men whose conversation I can tolerate have never enticed me. And either way, I prefer to be alone." 

And there, right there, John could foretell the lonely state of their marriage. 

Sherlock's sharp eyes caught something. "What are those?" And he was off running. John took his time ambling along until he was about twenty feet away from the curious objects which had Sherlock so fascinated. 

"You keep bees!" Sherlock said with no little awe. 

"Yes, we have hives scattered over the estate grounds." This one was surrounded by a little copse of trees. There was a half-rotted stump nearby, plenty of overhang from the trees for shade and protection from winter snow. "This hive was wild, in the tree here. Our beekeeper managed to move it when I was a boy so we could more easily harvest the honey." 

Sherlock glanced around, but the brisk autumn sky held nothing but clouds. 

"The bees are packed away for the winter, otherwise they'll freeze. Take off your glove." 

Sherlock didn't ask questions, immediately removing one of his gloves. John tugged on his hand and led him right up to the hive. 

"They're loud," Sherlock observed. "And warm!" John had put his fingers over a vent hole in the top of the hive cover. "Fascinating." John could see Sherlock's mind working, trying to imagine the inside of the hive, the sheer number of tiny bodies wiggling and humming, keeping warm and sipping honey stored in the combs. 

"We must come back in spring, then, when they're open. I'm sure Mr. Gilmore would be amenable to answering your questions." _Maybe not_ all _your questions,_ thought John, _but the man did like to talk bees._


	12. Chapter 12

After dragging Sherlock from the beehives, John led the two of them to a little copse of woods. 

"I'd play here as a child. Explore for ancient treasures. Hunt the big, bad wolf." 

"There are few wolves left in Britain." 

"I know. I got the last of them by the time I was nine." 

Sherlock started a bit, then realized the joke and laughed along with John. He really was much more comfortable today. Sherlock wondered why that was. Perhaps out here, away from their brothers, he could be more himself. Perhaps he, as a man of action, felt smothered indoors, straightjacketed by the need for propriety. 

Sherlock thought that the woods were not only perfect for exploring and wolf-hunting, but with enough imagination, could pass for a perfect spot to bury pirate treasure. And he said so. This made John laugh, and Sherlock was inordinately pleased with himself over that. 

"Look, just there, where the fallen tree crosses the other! We should dig there; 'X' marks the spot, you know!" Sherlock scaled the recently fallen tree and peered at the ground around him. "Well, perhaps not. It doesn't appear that the ground here has been disturbed since a badger abandoned its nest." 

"Badgers? Oh, Sherlock, do come down from there." 

"Why? They're long gone." Sherlock crouched down and poked into the shallow burrow. "Likely they've found somewhere deeper and more secure for the winter." 

"No need to tempt fate." 

"What else is there to do but tempt fate in life, John? What other thrill is to be gotten?" 

John didn't answer. After a few moments of allowing Sherlock to explore the hollow, he said, "We ought to head back." 

"Oh, are you getting tired, John?" 

John clearly wasn't going to admit it, but Sherlock had noticed his pace had begun to slow and he stood a little stiffly now. In his pride, they would likely take a roundabout route back. 

"I'm fine." _Liar._ "It's just the fresh air inspires my appetite. I'd love to see if Mrs. Richardson has any of those tartlets left." 

"Of course, John. Let's be off."


	13. Chapter 13

Thirty long minutes later the manor's gravel drive finally stretched before them and John took a deep breath before heading towards the house. 

"Oh! Are you going to the downstairs or upstairs sitting room, John?" 

"I had thought to go to my room for a while, actually." 

"That's near enough the upstairs sitting room. Leave your door ajar." 

"What? Why?" But Sherlock had already dashed up the stairs and by the time John made it there, he'd disappeared somewhere into the house. 

John looked up the broad staircase. He'd overdone it with Sherlock in the countryside this morning. He wanted to do little but rest. And he had absolutely no idea what Sherlock had in mind when he so elegantly sprinted away. 

Meade took his overcoat and followed him up the staircase making sure he wouldn't fall. Once John was safely in his room, he abandoned his jacket and cravat with Meade as well, and let himself fall into his favorite chair by the fireplace. Meade helped him lift his leg onto a low footstool. 

"Leave the door ajar, Meade." 

"Sir?" When it became clear John didn't have an answer for him, Meade responded, "Yes, of course, sir," and left the room. John closed his eyes and let himself slump into the chair. He hadn't slept much lately. He might do for a nod in the chair after gamboling about all morning. Perhaps it might even be restful. 

And then, music. That was something he hadn't heard in this house in years. Even when he had, it was inexpertly played pianoforte at a small entertainment, nothing grander. But this lone violin was quite grand. John almost got up to explore the source of the melody, but realized it simply had to be Sherlock. Harry never took to an instrument and John couldn't imagine Lord Sherrinford playing with such fervor. 

John listened to the music creeping in through his door until his eyes grew unaccountably heavy and he fell asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock and Lord Sherrinford had joined John for breakfast the following morning. Harry stumbled down just after Sherlock had pushed aside the remains of his toast. John was still dug into a much heartier breakfast. Harry studiously ignored the contents of his brother's plate, requesting strong tea and nothing else. 

The morning post arrived. Mycroft's eyebrows lifted as one letter was placed beside his brother's plate. Sherlock snapped it up with undisguised delight while Mycroft calmly flicked through the dozen or so letters that had arrived for him. 

"Mycroft, ready the coach. We must leave for London at once!" Sherlock shot out of the room in a flurry of coat tails. Lord Sherrinford plucked up Sherlock's letter, still fluttering from Sherlock's wake. 

After a brief perusal, he said, "I apologize for this abrupt and untimely departure. My brother's presence is urgently required in London. He has, on occasion, consulted with Bow Street on certain matters. It appears something out of the usual course of things has occurred." 

"Yes, of course we understand, Lord Sherrinford." Harry's hangover gave way to fluster. Sherlock's baritone bellowed in the hall for his luggage to be packed and to please be mindful of the violin. 

"We'd better make haste, or he will begin running there on his own two feet." 

John and Harry pushed away from the breakfast table as Lord Sherrinford stood. 

"Worry not, Sir Harold. I will send the final paperwork around with my solicitor in a week's time and we can pick a date as early as the reading of the banns allows, or arrange a special license, if you prefer." Harry dropped back into his chair at this, definite relief on his face. 

"Captain Watson, I expect I'll see you at the ceremony, if nothing else. Good day." 

John bowed politely before Lord Sherrinford left the room. 

"Heavens," Harry breathed. 

"Indeed. Excuse me, Harry." 

John left the room to find Sherlock donning his greatcoat in the foyer. The amount of servants seemed to have tripled, bustling down and back up the stairs, both with and without luggage. 

"I'm sorry our visit was cut so short, Sherlock." 

"Doesn't matter. We will be married soon and you'll be in London and, I imagine, heartily sick of me by summer." John smiled, wishing there was more he could say. 

"Could I write to you?" Where had that come from? What would he have to say in letters to this man? 

"Do as you will, John, but I'll likely be too busy to read them. I may make the time if you write about the bees. I may just pour over your letters, then!" 

"Will you write back?" 

"I don't have time for _correspondence_ , John." He said it like it was a foul word. "There are nefarious deeds in London!" 

Sherlock shook John's proffered hand and disappeared out the door, likely startling the horses that were pulling up the carriage outside with his shout, "Mycroft, do hurry!"


	15. Chapter 15

Once the Holmes brothers had left, preparations continued in good faith. The banns were posted with their intention to join the families. A notice appeared in several of the newspapers that trickled in from London. Congratulations and sometimes gifts were thrust upon John as he walked through the village. Mrs. Phillips, formerly John's nurse Miss Abernathy, handed him a rather bulky parcel tied with twine. 

"Some good, warm jumpers, Captain Watson." 

John suddenly missed her voice calling him 'young Master Watson' and sometimes 'Johnny' when no one else was around to hear. 

"Wear them in good health, young man." She fussed a bit over him like she used to do. "I daresay you'll make the most handsome groom since my Tom." 

"I wouldn't say that, Mrs. Phillips. You haven't yet laid eyes on my intended." 

"So, it's like that, is it?" Her faded brown eyes sparkled with delight. 

"No, no. We've only just met." John blushed, wanting to pull at his high collar and choking cravat, but couldn't due to the weighty woolen parcel in one hand and his cane in the other. 

"Well, I hope Mr. Holmes appreciates his excellent fortune, then, Captain Watson." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Phillips." 

When John returned to the manor house, he unwrapped the bundle and admired the warm jumpers he'd been given. One was a natural oatmeal color, thick and knit with a twisted cable design. One was a darker blue and the third, green. They were for informal settings – John had one or two he wore in spring and fall when walking about, or had done, but they were wearing in spots and had not entirely escaped moths in his absence to war. 

John sat down that afternoon to write to Sherlock, whether Sherlock planned to read it or not. He dipped his pen to ink a dozen times before writing any more than the salutation. Nothing really happened to him. What could he possibly have to say beyond, 'My old nurse knit me several sweaters,' or 'I walked back to the copse of trees and the badger was indeed back in her den'? 

The next day he relented and visited Mr. Gilmore, taking comprehensive notes for Sherlock on the proper winterizing of bees. 

A week later, the final documents for Harry to peruse and sign arrived with the morning post. 

Also on the tray lay a fat fold of paper with Captain John Watson's direction scrawled upon the outside layer. 

"You've got a letter?" Harry inquired, looking away from his dismally thick package. 

"I suppose so." 

"Must be a long one." The papers didn't seem to want to be folded, so they were tied with twine instead of sealing wax to keep them together. "Who sent it?" 

John flipped it around. Barely legible was the name. 

"Sherlock Holmes." He wrote back. He actually wrote back. John was sure it was stupid to be so giddy about it but he couldn't help himself. 

"Oh, well, did he say he'd write? About time, then." Harry seemed about to try the egg on his plate, but pushed it away at the last moment. 

"No, Harry, he quite specifically said he wouldn't." 

John wanted to tear open the letter, so much so that his ears heated up. He carefully severed the twine with his penknife and let the pages fall open. 

The contents of the letter were unusual, to say the least. 

John glanced through the pages. It wasn't a letter, not exactly. It was, what, notes? Of what? Autopsy, perhaps, but only of hands. Hands, why only hands? John started over at the beginning before starting to laugh. 

Sherlock was incapable of writing a normal letter, like he'd said. But he still wanted to tell John what he was doing, so he mailed him case notes. And apparently, someone had found a bagful of hands and Sherlock had meticulously attempted to deduce the deceased owner of each one.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back a bit to the day Sherlock leaves the Watson home for London.

The carriage had barely made it to London and Sherlock was plastered to the window trying to judge precisely when forward progress would be faster by foot than through traffic. His brother, ever indulgent no matter what Sherlock said, had instructed the driver to make directly for St. Bartholemew's. Lord Sherrinford had not, of course, ever set foot in such a squalid earthy location, but it was a waste of breath to scold Sherlock about it. 

The streets of London were full this time of day: full of people, full of life, full of smells and soot and heart-wrenching horror. Nothing, nowhere, could ever be better. Sherlock loved this city, this giant madhouse with over a million minds tearing it this way and that. It was amazing, exciting, thrilling; he knew every inch of its thin, twisty streets, even the narrow alleys and courtyards, the sewers with child sized rats eking out a rancid existence. If the cab or carriage weren't so necessary for the long distances, Sherlock would never close himself away from his city so. He wanted to feel the dirt and cobbles beneath his feet; less than three days away and he was ready to crawl out of his skin in gladness for being home. 

Traffic slowed to a crawl about six blocks from the venerable old hospital. Sherlock jumped out of the carriage – only his incredible fleetness and luck preventing a flattened foot or muddy splash to his boots. Lord Sherrinford immediately rapped on the small driver's window. 

"He has made his escape. Turn towards the London house at the earliest opportunity." 

Sherlock dashed through the myriad people as if they stood still; in truth, his world merely moved faster than most by comparison. He took the familiar entrance that led directly to the morgue, dodging the fresh and not-so-fresh deliveries. 

"Oi! You can't come in here!" 

"I was invited. Who the hell are you?" Sherlock peered down his nose at the sniveling little man, who, in fact, was nearly as tall as him and thicker through the neck. Sherlock saw him only by the size of his brain – insignificant! – and by his loathing for the detective. 

"You know very well who I am." The man, more than thrice met, wrinkled up his pointy little face in a sneer. 

"Nonsense. I'd never forget meeting a rat-faced, mealy-mouthed little worm such as yourself. Unless it was purposely." Sherlock sniffed. "Now that I consider it, the instance of intentional amnesia is quite likely. Now get out of my way." 

"Anderson, step aside and let Mr. Holmes through." Lestrade's voice cut through their sniping. "Holmes, I rather expected you at Bow Street first." 

"The hands are here." 

"I'm not overly concerned about the hands." 

"But the hands tell the story! Five hands could mean as many as five victims! We must catalog the details of each and compare them to reports of missing persons." 

"Holmes, I did not call on you about the hands. They could be missing from cadavers already in morgues around the city; they could be some dumb prank by this year's medical class, stolen from the labs at university; they could have been harvested like any other body part by resurrection men digging up graves. And while all those are repugnant, the immediate origins of the hands do not concern me." 

"Then why on earth did your dispatch mention five disembodied hands?" Sherlock threw up his very-much-embodied hands in exasperation. 

Lestrade thrust a much-folded square of paper towards him. 

"Because the letter addressed to you mentions them." 

Sherlock snatched up the note, reading it five times before taking note of the details in the handwriting, type of paper, flow of ink, scratch of nib. All this he catalogued in silence. Finally Lestrade interrupted. 

"What does it mean, Holmes?" 

Sherlock tucked the note inside his coat. Lestrade knew he wouldn't turn it back over the second he handed it to him. He sighed at the lost cause. 

"Not enough data. What data do we have? The note and the hands. I must see the hands." 

"Anderson, fetch him the hands." The morgue attendant grumbled, but carried over two jars. 

"What have you done to them?" Sherlock was aghast. "All the evidence is ruined! You incompetent clod!" 

The five hands had been stuffed in two large jars of alcohol and had slightly bloated. At least they hadn't been disposed of by fire or by burial in the lime-lined pits that were dug and filled almost constantly in a city as large as London. 

"I wasn't going to let them sit there and putrefy a sennight, was I?" 

"Lestrade, you found these _a week ago_ and didn't notify me immediately? I was still in London then!" 

"Only four days. And we began by contacting anyone who might have legitimately had body parts lying around to lose. We have not been idle, Holmes. There was no reason to call you in until the note." 

Sherlock grumbled. 

"What was that?" 

Sherlock cleared this throat and began again. "You knew precisely where I would be. Mycroft informed you we'd be away, didn't he and told you not to interfere with his plans?" 

"Lord Sherrinford does occasionally keep me updated." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Mycroft, damn him!" Sherlock continued to grumble, roughly dumping out one of the jars across the autopsy table. The liquid flooded across the slab and splashed onto the floor on the other side. Anderson gave a disgruntled yell as he was splashed. 

"Oh, do shut up, Anderson. The smell hardly makes a dent in the miasma of death and decay that defines you." Sherlock pushed his face close to the first two hands, pulling back again and studied them from different angles. He prodded at the fingers with one gloved hand, (which was a constant source of employment to his haberdasher). 

"Anderson, your face is putting me off. Twenty steps, that direction." Sherlock pointed to the nearest wall. 

"It's only ten paces to the wall," Anderson replied smugly. 

"Then use the door and continue on the other side." 

Lestrade put up a hand to keep Anderson from slapping Sherlock with the wet rag he was using to clean up the preserving alcohol from the slab and floor. The morgue attendant threw the rag in a bucket and skulked from the room. 

"Sherlock, I appreciate that you are so concerned with these hands." And Sherlock might normally have interrupted Lestrade at this point, but he was engrossed and barely listening. He could insult Anderson on pure instinct and a moment later be surprised he said anything at all. "But the real reason I called you here was not because of the hands, but because of the letter addressed to you at Bow Street." 

"How can you not see, Lestrade, how intricately the hands are tied into the note? If we can determine the origins of the hands, we can find a pattern or a location or a suspect. With just the letter, we have nearly nothing." 

Sherlock and Lestrade stared at each other, both strong-willed and sharp. Only Lestrade knew, however, exactly when to leave off and let the other have his way. 

"Fine, Sherlock, do what you want. Stop by Bow Street in the morning and I'll bring you to see where the bag was found and you can interview the merchant if you want." 

"Yes, yes, fine." Lestrade could see that Sherlock was lost. Maybe he was right, that if they found out where the hands came from, they'd find the connection that would lead them to… to whom? Some sick bastard playing games with body parts. Lestrade wasn't even sure what he'd say to the magistrate when they found the person responsible. Improper disposal of a corpse? Grave robbing? Or maybe it was murder? Nothing for it but to let Sherlock have a go, he supposed. 

But that letter. That letter gave him chills. It rang with the voice of a madman in Lestrade's mind.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock spent the rest of the evening at the morgue, tirelessly cataloguing the hands; he'd gotten enough sleep in the dull countryside to last him a week. There was so much information to be gathered by just a person's hand! Beyond their simple measurements, there were: imperfections and peculiarities; calluses; nail-length and neatness. He plucked tiny hairs from fingers and the backs of the hands to examine the colour and texture of each. He made copious notes complete with detailed sketches, labeling each mark and including the length and direction of the lines in each palm. He concluded each bundle of notes with the likeliness of age and occupation for each hand. 

His conclusions: five victims, as none of the hands were a matched pair; three male, two female; they had all labored for a living, though it would have been quite startling if they had not. A missing noble or person of wealth would have been all the more noticeable than the droves of lower and working class. He prepared a list of careers: chef, marine, seamstress, prostitute and dock worker, though he felt a wave of irritation for Anderson. The alcohol may have preserved the flesh, but vital evidence washed away. He could not smell them, for instance, for the alcohol was pungent and cleansing. He could not even properly place residue at the bottom of the jars to a profile, for several hands had been shoved into one jar. 

_Incompetents. It was no wonder guilty men walked free and the innocent were hanged._

When the sun finally rose again over the city, Sherlock examined each hand again by daylight in case the lamplight had obscured some color or detail. 

Anderson opened the door in the morning for the overnight deliveries piled on the coroner's wagon pulled up outside. Sherlock's continued presence in his morgue perturbed him, though, of course, he had locked him in when he left the night before. Sherlock hadn't noticed, but if he had, the bolt plate on the heavy door would have posed little trouble to the reputed lock-pick. 

"I don't suppose you'll vacate so I can get some work done in peace today?" 

Sherlock stood and waved at the open jars and clutter of hands. 

"Do find separate jars for each this time, Anderson." 

With that, he left for Bow Street to inquire about the results of Lestrade's investigation so far. 

"All of the university labs have been accounted for; their cadavers are properly autopsied criminals and they have the paperwork to prove it. However, while nothing was reported missing, some anatomy labs don't want to know where the cadavers come from and, once used, don't particularly make sure they've been given a proper burial." 

"All the more reason to check into missing persons, Lestrade." 

Lestrade sighed. 

"What do you think about that cryptic letter, eh? Any idea who sent it?" 

"Well, I can narrow it down from several million speakers of English – and in conjunction with literacy rates and the mention of the hands, I can narrow it down even more. However, more investigation into the identity of the sender is required." 

"What do you suggest I do?" 

"This is hardly the business of Bow Street, Lestrade. There is no crime in sending a letter. You hardly believe in a crime where a bagful of hands is discovered in an alley by a merchant man. Thus I will continue the investigation into the letter myself." 

"Holmes…" 

"I will not hear it, Lestrade. It was addressed to me, after all." 

"And why is that, do you think?" Lestrade countered irritably. 

But Sherlock didn't hear him, much as he said he wouldn't. 

"How long will it take to sort through the reports for missing persons fitting these descriptions?" Sherlock handed over a single sheet with only the most relevant facts written in the most looping scrawl. He had tucked the rest of his notes quite awkwardly into the pocket of his greatcoat where they swelled and bunched up and ruined the line. 

"Descriptions? None of our reports will have descriptions of hands." 

"No, Lestrade," Sherlock said in the most exasperated voice, as if explaining things to Lestrade were the most tiresome duty he'd ever been assigned. "But they will have occupation, approximate weight, hair color, and burns, scars, notable defects. I have listed what I can deduce about those things, and none of the hands have notable defects, so you can remove files that do have them. You need only go back a month or two." 

"A month or two? For all the city? That will take days, Sherlock, weeks even." 

"And you have more important things to do?" Sherlock's eyes glittered quite dangerously when he thought he might not get his way. 

"You know, Mr. Holmes, that I only tolerate your demands because you have a keen nose for the queer and bizarre. You sniff out the truth like a hound. But I warn you not to push me too far. I don't care that your brother does have the ear of the Regent. The Regent is far too above to notice an ant like me." 

"Really, Lestrade. Hounds and ants and my nose for goodness sake? You are awfully imaginative for a common thief-taker."


	18. Chapter 18

After John had spent a good portion of his afternoon pouring over his "letter" from Sherlock – at the end wondering idly how accurate the sketches included were, he began another letter to his intended. He kept his salutation and greeting brief, knowing that Sherlock would either skip over these or discard the letter immediately if he thought the entire letter was composed of platitudes. 

He wrote: _Preparations for my removal to London continue. I look forward to our meeting in London at Lord Sherrinford's home a week hence. I enjoyed reading your notes on the ghoulish case of the abandoned hands, but had a few questions. The sketches show an excess of skin around the wrist; also, indications of disjointment instead of severing. Would this be the case? I find this highly unusual._

John closed his brief letter with, _Yours, J.H. Watson, Capt. (ret.)_

He didn't need to mention the tailor that arrived from London, apparently at Lord Sherrinford's request and with the same footing the bill. Sherlock likely wouldn't care that John had spent the better part of a day being moved around and prodded as he was fitted for not only his wedding suit but apparently an entire trousseau as well. 

Sherlock didn't need to know that John felt somewhat humiliated in being outfitted like a bride by his intended family, nor that he'd only accepted the clothes because otherwise he'd be an embarrassment to his future husband dressed in his more rustic and outdated wardrobe. 

John also didn't need to mention the blistering row he'd had with Harry over the documents Lord Sherrinford had sent along for Harry and his solicitor. 

"I don't see why I can't read them, Harry! They concern me more so than they concern you! I want to see exactly what Lord Sherrinford is paying for me." 

"It isn't any of your business, John." 

"The hell it isn't!" 

Harry looked startled. The butler, Meade, stood quite still with the post still on its tray. He stepped back as Harry rounded on John, anger bulking him up. He stood over his shorter brother, towering, but John stood his ground. If anything, John became more resolute. 

"This is my life; this is our father's estate. You will show me every penny you're getting and I will make sure it gets to where it needs to be!" 

"That is _not_ your place!" Harry shouted at him, but the statement made John blindingly furious. 

"My place?" 

"Those contracts concern the estate, John. You are part of that, not the head of it." 

John drew back, shocked. 

"If you could have made your feelings for me any more clear, Harry Watson, we could hang them for glass in the conservatory." John had finally stalked away, the curved wood of his cane grasped so tightly that it nearly came to either the cane would break or John's finger bones would. 

Later, after Harry was drunk and abed, John broke into the study. Harry always locked the door, but of course, Meade had the key. Meade wasn't particularly torn about handing it over to John, either. He let the young man into the study, promising to turn up first thing in the morning to lock it again so Harry would be none the wiser. 

John didn't know why he'd sought permission. If he'd expected kindness and reason from his brother, he'd apparently not met him. Harry had not allowed John's advice on the finances since John had been home (despite taking John's pittance of a pension for household expenses); and while he'd occasionally asked for John's opinion before he'd left for war, it was more in polite conversation rather than with any real desire for his input. 

John spent some time looking through the account books too. The figures were astounding, particularly in the columns owed. They, no, Harry would certainly have lost the estate in a matter of months. No amount of juggling could have saved it in the end. It was amazing he'd kept it up as long as he did. Not that Harry deserved the easy path in all this. 

John finally opened the box from London, with the self-admonition to not shuffle things awry since the solicitor was coming the next day to go through them with Harry and the need for reorganization would alert Harry to John's interference. John cut the tie on the neatly wrapped package of papers. 

John couldn't understand every bit of it, but he could understand sums, even sums as large as these. Not only was Lord Sherrinford paying every debt (and he certainly listed in depth every single debt, even ones Harry did not list in the account books) but he was supplying Harry a great deal of money towards the running of the estate for the next two years. If Harry was able to keep the estate profitable, Lord Sherrinford would be termed an investor and Harry would begin to pay dividends out of his estate income. John did a few sums on the foolscap and estimated it would take decades to pay out the money Lord Sherrinford was giving them, even if he wasn't asking for interest. 

Many addendums were added in case of John's death, Sherlock's death, Harry's or Lord Sherrinford's death without legitimate issue. Harry made out well enough in any case, and John's allowance would be continued. John felt slightly guilty over this; Harry at least had been negotiating for John, not just himself. 

It was well past three in the morning when John finally tidied up the pages, tied them again with the string Harry had in one of his desk drawers, and placed the closed box quite precisely where he'd found it. 

No, Sherlock wouldn't be interested in any of this and John himself would be glad to be rid of the worry of it. In just over a week, he'd be married, out of his brother's house and, much as Sherlock had declared, abundant in freedom.


	19. Chapter 19

John and Harry rode to London in absolute silence. The two times in the past week Harry had tried to speak to John, however politely, he'd been soundly ignored. John had finished packing. His trousseau would be waiting at Lord Sherrinford's London house for the final fitting; so John had been somewhat surprised at how little he had to pack. 

There had been a few trinkets of his mother's that Harry had not thought worth selling: a small brass locket with one of John's pale childhood locks closed inside; a few ribbons that she'd worn around her neck in lieu of ostentatious jewels and which John imagined still smelled like her, just a little; and a handkerchief that she'd delicately embroidered, so pretty that the square was never used but hidden away so the threads wouldn't fade. John had these in a small box tucked away amongst his few medical texts. 

The servants that were left on the estate, many of them people who had been born here in the time of John's father and grandfather, tearily wished him well as he left. He would come back, he promised, and he thanked Mrs. Richardson for tending to him so well during his illness. 

John wished he had the wedding purse, a little bag of coins to distribute upon his nuptials. The servants didn't seem to care, though, as if they understood John was being sold for their continued livelihood. John promised himself to make sure the little extra money was sent along quite promptly, for their loyalty. 

And now the long ride to London. With stops, it was only eight or nine hours. With Harry, it was about eternity. Were their horses more youthful and fleet, their travel time might be cut significantly. But they were in their own… no, Harry's carriage, John corrected stubbornly in his head. And the horses left to pull it were not Lord Sherrinford's sprightly beasts. John thanked his luck that the weather was clear and that their journey was not one of several days of unending jolts and rocking and thick, thick silence. 

Their arrival at Lord Sherrinford's grand London house, sprawled in the middle of Mayfair, did not improve matters. Harry was tired, hung over, and snappish. He'd spoken in John's general direction during stops, though John had not replied. His flask had been too small and emptied too early in the trip, with John glaring each time Harry unscrewed the cap. Now he snapped at the servants, who were too well-trained to do more than utter, "Of course, sir," when unfounded comments of carelessness were directed at them. 

Harry stomped up directly to his room. John spent a little more time outside the palatial façade in wonderment. The Watson's manor home was much larger than any village home, of course, but still modest. The Holmes' London property was utterly astounding. John couldn't rightly see all of it as close to it as he was. He strode the length of it and back twice before trying the steps – the long carriage ride had stiffened his leg. 

A footman so formally attired that John might not recognize him if three such footmen were in a line together led John up to his room. For his luxury after his trip, a bath was being filled in an adjoining dressing room. John took full advantage and took his time in the hot water. He thought briefly of ordering dinner to his room and calling it an early night but he didn't want to seem standoffish or too delicate for travel in front of his new family. _And certainly not in front of Sherlock,_ he added to himself. 

A valet helped John dress for dinner after his bath – no double duty for the servants in this household. When John felt suitably groomed and presentable, he descended for supper. Another footman (the same one?) led him to the study where Lord Sherrinford worked at a desk nearly as large as a bed. 

"Captain Watson, welcome." Lord Sherrinford stood and grasped John's hand as if he was genuinely glad to see him. "I apologize for not being home to greet you upon your arrival. I received a summons from Marlborough House this afternoon and had to rush away. Please do sit. Your brother has not yet come downstairs but I do expect him shortly." 

"Is Sherlock about?" If Lord Sherrinford noticed the change of subject or the tightening of John's mouth at the mention of his brother, he didn't reveal it. 

"Sherlock has quite removed himself to the house I found on Baker Street. I do hope you find it to your liking. If not, we can make other arrangements." 

"I'm sure it will do just fine." 

"It's quite quaint. A three-story townhouse with both a first and second floor sitting room, space enough for a housekeeper, maid and footman. I'd send more servants along, but Sherlock finds their habits disturb him." 

"Habits?" 

"Cleaning, working, being industrious. Ah, speak of the devil and it arrives forthwith." 

"Brother, your footmen interrupted a very important experiment. For what? Dinner?" 

Sherlock flopped into a large leather chair, his sprawl making it seem too small and very uncomfortable. 

"Good evening, Sherlock." 

"Ah, John, you have arrived. How many days does that make until the wedding then?" 

"Three, Sherlock." 

"I suppose you'll have to have the footmen roust me out for that, as well, Mycroft. I had completely forgotten about it. Why is the excess skin around the wrists unusual, John?" Sherlock's words so completely flowed into each other that John didn't realize Sherlock was speaking to him at first. 

"Oh! So the sketches were quite accurate, then?" 

"Of course they were, John. I would hardly put false information in my notes." 

"Right! Of course, sorry. Well, usually when you perform an amputation, you leave as much skin around the stump side as possible, to cover the exposed end of the arm or leg." 

"How very curious." Sherlock shifted to lean forward, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. "As an army surgeon, you would have performed many amputations." He said this thoughtfully, not really asking, but John answered anyway. 

"Far too many." 

"You've seen enough violent injuries to know what they're about, then?" 

"Of course." 

"I shall take you in the morning to see the hands." He drifted off in thought and remained silent for several minutes. John wasn't sure what do to and Lord Sherrinford simply continued to peruse the papers in front of him. 

"Stop reading so loudly, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted suddenly. His brother only lifted an eyebrow in response. "It's impossible to think when the cogs in your brain are turning so rustily!" 

"Perhaps we ought to go into supper. I don't believe Sir Harold will be joining us." 

"Dinner, supper, tea. Life is not meant to be lived around mealtimes, Mycroft." 

John turned his head towards one of the dark windows, London invisible beyond. There was another small ting against the glass. At first he thought it was bits of hail, but it had not been bitingly cold today and the noise was too evenly spaced and regular. Pebbles? Who would toss pebbles at the window of a mansion such as this? John limped over to the window of Sherrinford house and peered down into the street. 

"Sherlock, a squalid little urchin is trying to get your attention." Lord Sherrinford's droll voice rose from his desk. He had not risen to look out the window like John; of course, he hadn't needed to. 

Sherlock was already calling for his greatcoat in the hall. 

John glanced between Sherlock's retreating form and the street. 

"Go on, then, Captain Watson." 

One final glance to assure himself Sherlock had not dashed away already and John fell into place two steps behind his future husband.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Research tidbit: London has a very confusing policing history during this time period. The Thames had its own police force, there was Bow Street, police specifically for the City of London, there were watches night and day, etc. Later in the 19th century the greater London area was consolidated into the Metropolitan police force, residing at 4 Whitehall Place and backing onto a street known as Great Scotland Yard. I've done my best to not get too bogged down in it. :)
> 
> Oh, and because I can't resist, the game is afoot! :)

"Wiggins, lad, what have you got for me?" 

Sherlock slipped a coin from his pocket and the child in front of him made it quickly disappear somewhere about his person. The boy didn't have pockets. 

"Some of the mudlarks down by Blackfriars saw a man drop a bag off the bridge. They thought he was drownin' pups or sommat and they waded out a little to see." 

"What man? Did you get a description?" 

"Tall, dark caped coat, top hat. Couldn't catch much more'n his shadow as he ran off." 

"Fine, fine." Sherlock's mind whirled. _Another bag, another clue!_

"What was in the bag, Wiggins?" 

"Four feet." 

"Four feet of what?" John asked. Sherlock made a disgruntled sound. Wiggins stuck out a dirty, rag-covered extremity. 

"Appendages, John. Like the hands," Sherlock explained quite impatiently. 

"Oh, sorry, right. Because body parts get tossed over bridge rails every single day." 

"Of course not, John, but it's been a strange month." 

John looked at Sherlock, lips twitching with mirth. Sherlock allowed himself a smile and turned back to the fidgety boy in front of him. 

"Who answered the whistle?" 

"River police, I guess." Wiggins shrugged. "None of us stuck around to get caught." 

Sherlock rubbed together another two coins between his fingertips before dropping them into Wiggins' outstretched palm. 

"Very good job, young man. Come along, John. We must intercept the evidence before it gets too fouled by stupid hands." 

John kept up with Sherlock as far as the busy street where he hailed a hackney cab. Sherlock swung himself inside with a flourish and shouted out his direction to the driver. John hauled himself inside after and had barely settled before the coach set off towards the river. 

"I do hope Dimmock is on duty tonight. Lestrade owes him a favor so he may just foist the feet onto him and wash his hands of it." 

"And if it's not Dimmock?" 

But Sherlock wasn't interested in making conversation. He gazed out the window as they rolled through the smoky evening air. John studied the silence and imagined he could almost hear Sherlock thinking, though his mind worked with a well-oiled whir as opposed to his brother's supposed rusty clanking. The thought made him smile. 

"Donovan." Sherlock scowled as he paid the driver and leapt from the cab. 

"Well, if it ain't the mad little lordling. I should have known. Grisly remains discarded and Holmes comes walking up like he knew they was here." 

Donovan, new-made sergeant of the River Police, strode up to Sherlock and John as their cab departed. He was big and beefy, his nose broken too many times and his dark hair was shorn as close as the five o'clock shadow that covered his face. How the bully had ever made sergeant was a mystery that Sherlock couldn’t solve. He caressed his truncheon far too fondly. 

"You know, we had a report of a tall man in a caped greatcoat like yours running off the bridge just after the bag dropped to the river. Have you got an alibi, Holmes?" 

Sherlock drily replied, "What, a greatcoat like the one every gentleman of _quality_ wears in November in London?" Donovan was not insulted enough. 

"What's the matter, Holmes? Did you misjudge the tide and your little prizes landed in the mud instead of the river proper?" 

"New haircut, Donovan? Criminals giving you fleas again or are you delousing after a particularly nasty whore?" 

"Gentlemen!" Lestrade's voice punched through the tension. "Donovan, this is clearly part of my case." 

"Talk to my superiors, then, Lestrade," Donovan growled. "Until I'm told otherwise, you're out of your jurisdiction." 

"Do you really want to listen to Sherlock proselytizing until ten tomorrow morning when your superiors are in the office? Because you know he will. He can talk more useless nonsense than a politician and twice as long." 

"I'll have you know that nothing I say is nonsense, Lestrade!" John hid his smile at Sherlock's indignation behind a cough when Sherlock glared in his direction. 

Donovan looked torn between laughing at the insult and admitting just how true it was. 

"Christ! Fine, Lestrade, take them. I'll be glad to have that one off my hands. Oi! Bring the bag over here, lad! We're off!" One of the other river patrols trotted up and tossed a burlap bag at Sherlock's feet. "And you. I ain't seen you before," Donovan directed at John, "but you showed up with him. He's a madman, mind you. Even if he ain't the one who dumped these feet, he'll be doing the crime one day and showing up the next to lead us all on a merry chase in the wrong directions. And maybe that time, it'll be your foot, or hand, or head falling from the bridge. And I'll earn my next promotion when his neck is stretched…" 

"Donovan, enough! I'm certain you have patrols to cover." Lestrade inserted himself in the middle of their little group. He stood on guard like a fierce mastiff until Donovan and his underlings had sauntered off into the night. 

"Jesus, Sherlock, what did you ever do to Donovan to make him hate you so much?" 

"What do I ever do, Lestrade?" 

"It's like the menagerie, Sherlock. Don't provoke the animals," Lestrade admonished once Donovan was out of earshot. Instead of taking the warning, Sherlock chuckled. 

"John, this is Lestrade, one of the only halfway intelligent men working on Bow Street." 

"He means the only one who will work with him." Lestrade held out his hand for John to shake. 

"Lestrade, this is Captain John Watson, formerly of the 52nd Northumberland Fusilers. He's my…" 

"Colleague," John interrupted, not sure quite what Sherlock was going to say. 

"Yes, colleague." Sherlock glanced at him curiously. "He was a surgeon in the army. I'm consulting him about the nature of the amputations." 

"The great Sherlock Holmes is consulting someone else?" Lestrade hooted. "My goodness, man, you must be brilliant." 

"I hardly think it unusual that I would consult a man of experience. He has been to war; I have not. I may have expertise in anatomy, but I have never sawn off a man's leg." Sherlock reverted back to a haughty, insulted tone. 

"Now, Holmes, I did not mean to ruffle your feathers." Sherlock ignored him. 

"Let's get these to the morgue, John." Sherlock picked up the bag, swung it, mud and all, over his shoulder. John gave Lestrade an apologetic look and trailed after.


	21. Chapter 21

John followed Sherlock to a cab that he somehow managed to wave down even with an unpleasantly lumpy and stained burlap sack in his grasp. To his surprise, Lestrade hopped up inside with them. 

"So, Captain Watson, how long have you been home from the war?" he asked genially as the cab sprang forth towards the hospital. 

"Since summer," John answered warily. "My leg was injured during Quatre Bras. I recuperated from fever at my brother's home in Essex." 

"You must have fully recovered then, to chase around after this one." 

John wasn't quite sure how to answer that. 

"Much improved, thank you," he managed. 

"So how long have you known Holmes?" 

John glanced at Sherlock, but he was staring out of the window, thoughts completely obliterating the conversation happening only a foot away from him. 

"We met a couple of weeks ago. He and his brother visited me and mine at my brother's estate." 

"Just about the time of the announcement in the papers then. Couldn't see it being a love match, I suppose. Congratulations, at any rate." Lestrade's leaned back, pleased with John's startled look. 

"It doesn’t take a genius, Lestrade, to read a newspaper announcement." Sherlock's chill voice didn't put a damper on Lestrade's pleasure. "And Donovan would offer condolences, but the prat isn't here." 

"Oh, so you knew." 

"Not for sure until you were introduced. Never thought Holmes would marry. Figured it must have been arranged when I saw the betrothal notice, or a grievous misprint." The man laughed, but in a pleasant, amused way. "I never expected to actually meet you, and certainly not at a crime scene. Figured you'd two keep your paths as separate as possible. That he'd keep you at home like a little wife." 

"You're not as dull as I often suspect, Lestrade." 

The man beamed at the offhanded praise from Sherlock Holmes. 

"Except if you thought for a minute I'd simply obey Mycroft and be married without the spouse being in the least bit useful, you're more cracked than Donovan's left shoe." 

John hadn't quite known Sherlock well enough to recognize the twisted, deformed nature of his praise, but Lestrade merely laughed again. 

"A medical man, and a soldier. You've done quite well for yourself, Holmes." 

An hour later, John Watson found himself watching his fiancé examining a severed foot with a magnifying lens. Lestrade had hopped out of the hired coach when it neared Bow Street, exchanging promises to keep the other informed, leaving John and Sherlock to travel the rest of the way to the morgue in silence. 

"John, take notes," he had said. Not, _please, John, it will go faster and more efficiently if you take notes_. Still, John wrote down all the measurements and details Sherlock provided, rarely requiring him to repeat anything, and generally submitted in silence. 

"Amazing," he said once, unable to contain himself when Sherlock launched into the conclusion that none of these feet matched any of the hands. It was simple enough to deduce that, because they were all left feet, there were at least four victims, or at least dismembered corpses, but Sherlock's tiny details provided very different pictures of the former owners than had been provided by the hands. 

"See, John, look!" Sherlock raced around the morgue, shoving Anderson into the slab where he was working in a fume three times more often than necessary. "Honestly, Anderson, where did you put the jars?" 

"Storage, you dolt, that cabinet there." Anderson gestured with a wicked filleting knife. "Now get away from me." 

Sherlock opened each jar and carefully removed the pickled remains, laying each on a cloth John later realized was Anderson's coat (due to venomous swearing that went unheard by a flurried Sherlock). 

"The feet are all male. Two of the hands belonged to women, so that leaves us three. Dock worker, marine, very common jobs. After years on their feet, there are all sorts of likely callouses, marks from rubbing shoes, probably broken toes from heavy boxes being dropped, et cetera. Salt water, very drying, damp, causing rubs and rashes. Also, with the weight of muscle and the added weight of cargo, the bones in the feet would have spread, widened. See how narrow each foot is, how clean and healthy, skin unbroken? Plenty of time on horseback, chair, in well-fitted shoes or boots." 

"Third hand, chef. Obvious from the burn scars and shallow knife cuts. Much older than the others, though not yet wizened." John noticed the scars and cuts, imagined using a knife to cut vegetables and a few small scars were right where he could see the knife slipping. The scars were faded, almost invisible except for how they sometimes interrupted the flow of the whorls on the fingertips or oddly puckered the skin. Very old scars, then, from when the man was learning his trade, developing his skills with a knife. 

"Fascinating." John picked up Sherlock's lens and peered through it at the fingertips. 

A few moments later, he noticed Sherlock had stopped talking and was looking at him quite oddly. 

"Er, sorry." He offered the glass back to Sherlock. 

"No, it's… fine." Sherlock swept away and back, dramatically pacing in a small three step area. "What else do you see?" 

John peered through the glass. He remembered his questioning the sketches Sherlock had sent him and began to examine the stump end. 

"There is more skin than you would typically leave on the amputated limb. See, here." John used a couple of instruments to fold down some of the skin around the wrist. It didn't cover the whole of the rawness, but perhaps that was a result of the preservation methods. "Usually you would leave that on the stump end, to help cover the wound." 

"Hmm." Suddenly Sherlock was leaning quite closely over John's shoulder. The man radiated heat, but John shivered a little. "Anything else?" 

"Amputation isn't always done at a joint, depending on the need. Sometimes you just have to saw through the bone, trying to save enough of a limb to keep a joint like the knee. Makes it easier to attach a false limb and the patient is ultimately more mobile. 

"These appear to be very methodically removed at the joint. Disassembled, much like a piece of meat. You may remove some of the cartilage or tendon to make it easier, but then you just twist until the joint pops." 

"Difficult to do were the patient alive, John?" 

"It would be blatant torture." John didn't even want to think about that. It was bad enough to remember the screams, the all-encompassing horror of the surgery tent, all the blood and pain and torment he'd seen, become acclimatized to on the continent; but to think of someone here, in London, doing this for some sort of sick game made him dizzy. 

"Can you tell if the limbs were removed post or ante mortem?" 

"Not for certain, no, but the neatness of the cuts would suggest postmortem. At the very least, the victim would have had to be completely immobile or unconscious." 

"Hmm." Sherlock resumed his narrow pacing. 

After a while, Sherlock bellowed, "Anderson, clean up! We're going!" 

John's head rose from his arms where he'd been dozing awkwardly on the desk in the corner. 

"Anderson went home hours ago, Sherlock." 

"Oh." Sherlock glanced around him, noticing for the first time the low level of oil in the lamps and the pale grey creeping into the sky beyond the east-facing window. "Then Anderson will be back shortly; he can still clean up. Let's go." 

John struggled to stand. Sleeping hunched over in a hard wooden chair hadn't done him any good and now his back ached in addition to his stiff leg. At least he hadn't had any nightmares or leg cramps; he supposed he hadn't gotten enough proper sleep for his body to bother. 

"Where are we going?" 

Sherlock paused. "I suppose I can't very well take you back to Baker Street until we're married, so Mycroft's, I expect. He'll have my head if I don't present you for your fittings this afternoon." 

"I have fittings?" 

"For your wedding suit, John, yes. Besides, there isn't much else we can do right now. We've examined both the hands and feet, and I'll send along the descriptions of the new victims to Lestrade. He may need a couple of days to have his men go through the missing persons reports at Bow Street. At any rate, he won't be there until at least nine to bother him about his lack of progress." 

John blinked wearily. For someone who clearly hadn't slept, Sherlock was amazingly alert and spoke almost faster than John could comprehend. He leaned heavily on his cane and followed Sherlock out onto the street, where he immediately hailed a passing hack. 

"I would have thought it would be impossible to find a cab at this time of day." London never truly slept, but surely the hour before dawn would be the closest it would come. Cool grey fog lined the streets, mixed with coal smoke from thousands of homes. Most people wouldn't be awake yet and even the night watch might be settling their heads against a convenient wall for a rest. 

Sherlock didn't answer and John dozed off again in minutes, head bouncing against the worn padded seat-back. 

He woke to Sherlock instructing the cabbie to wait. 

"Go inside, John, and get some rest." He hopped out of the cab and gave John a hand down. John might have protested the gentle treatment if he was more sure that his bad leg wouldn't turn to jelly at any moment. He was already dreading the long staircase up to his rooms in the Sherrinford household. 

"You're not staying?" 

"I'll not stay another night in my brother's house if I can help it." Sherlock dashed up the stairs ahead of John and let the knocker fall twice. One of the rather anonymous footmen answered it almost immediately. "Good night, John." 

"Good night, Sherlock." John's eyes followed Sherlock as he bounced back into the hack and set off.


	22. Chapter 22

"Holmes, you can't just break into my office whenever you have a theory." 

Lestrade was neither surprised nor angry to find Sherlock Holmes sitting at his desk with stacks of papers in front of him. It didn't pay to be either. 

"You mean to say I _shouldn't_ , Lestrade. Obviously, I most certainly _can_." 

"Have you at least found anything?" Lestrade removed his hat and coat, hung them on their hook by the door, and eyed Sherlock's unlikely "organizational method." Not only had papers found their way into a multitude of stacks on the desk, but there were now nine haphazard piles on the floor as well. 

"There are at least two possibilities for each extremity, though I have categorized them in order of likelihood due to the date they were last seen and the relative lack of decomposition of the feet. With the hands I could not be sure they had not been preserved since I did not have the chance to examine them immediately." His attitude was sharp, but Lestrade ignored it. "With the feet, there was no lingering preservative odour; they smelled of the burlap, the Thames mud, and only faintly of rot." 

"So they couldn't have been sitting around too long. But they could have been taken months ago, held captive, and then murdered all at once." 

"All at once! Exactly! The similar state of early decomposition shows that the feet were likely removed within hours of each other." 

"Jesus, Holmes." Lestrade didn't like this investigation one bit. "You're not going to let me hold on to my cadavers-from-the-university idea for even the rest of the morning, are you?" 

"Why would I let you labor under that misapprehension one moment longer?" 

"Because it's much less grim, Holmes." 

"Boring!" 

"The post, sir." One of the young lads hired for general errands around the building knocked once lightly and held out a stack of mail. Sherlock jumped up and grabbed the letters from the boy, turning his back to Lestrade in an effort to hoard them, and flung them aside one by one as he examined their direction. 

"Holmes, honestly." Lestrade waited until Sherlock had finished flinging papers before bending to gather them back up. He didn’t notice until he stood again that Sherlock was staring quite thoroughly at one carefully folded and sealed note. 

"Boy, come here immediately!" Sherlock shouted into the hallway. His tone was so forceful that three young men flew to stand before him. Sherlock proffered the letter at the middle one. "Where did you get this?" 

"Downstairs, sir, at the desk. Mr. Hampton always takes in the post and sorts it out." 

"And you never set it down from Mr. Hampton's hands to mine?" 

"No, sir, never," he gasped. 

"No one else gave you anything extra to slip this in the pile." 

"No, sir." 

Sherlock barely waited to hear the answer before dashing down the nearest stairs and confronting the unfortunate Mr. Hampton. 

"How did this come into the building, Mr. Hampton?" Sherlock demanded in a most hostile tone. 

"I beg your pardon?" Hampton stuttered. He was not overly familiar with Sherlock Holmes. He'd heard stories, of course. Sherlock was simultaneously admired and reviled through the magistrate's court. He hadn't had cause, as a mere clerk, to really work with the man himself. All he really could do was stay out of Sherlock's way when he was on a mission to see Lestrade and allow some of the other officers to complain in his presence with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. 

But to be confronted with the man's wrath a mere two inches from his face was quite the shock. 

Lestrade quickly intervened, tugged Sherlock back. 

"This letter, Hampton. How did it come into the building and how did it come to be sent to my office?" 

Hampton ducked around to peer at the letter in Sherlock's hand, responding nervously even to Lestrade's even voice. 

"Was in with the regular post," he said quickly. "I sent it up to your office just like the last because everyone knows he only works with you." 

Sherlock examined Hampton with an intense glare. 

"No special messenger arrived with it, then?" 

"No, sir. I'm certain of it." It may have been on the tip of Hampton's tongue to ask what the letter was, why its origin was so important, but he wouldn’t dare speak out of turn. 

"Thank you, Hampton." Lestrade nodded to the man after Sherlock had turned and started back up the staircase again. "If any other messages for Holmes arrive, notify me immediately. If they come special delivery, delay the courier." 

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."


	23. Chapter 23

John barely managed to be roused for his final fittings that afternoon. Despite how tired he'd been, he laid awake in bed for a long time. Funny how that night he could sleep anywhere but in a comfortable bed. He allowed himself to be poked, moved, dressed and undressed and accidentally stuck with pins without complaint. He wouldn't look in the mirror or give an opinion on the clothing, which annoyed his high-strung tailor to no end. 

When finally the torture of fashion was concluded, John dressed and went downstairs. He ended up in the library, learning from one of the many footmen that no one else was at home. Lord Sherrinford was away for the day as usual and Harry had apparently found somewhere else to be as well. John wondered idly if he'd gone to beg of Clara's parents again. Certainly his situation was quite immediately about to improve. John's wedding was in two days. 

John left his book; he couldn’t concentrate anyway. The library had an impressive collection of medical texts, books on plants and the sciences. Normally John would have been utterly lusting after those tomes, breath-taken and overwhelmed with the need to open each one and luxuriate inside. Today he felt like a bit of flotsam in the surf, buffeted around the huge empty house with no real direction or purpose. The long, empty hallways, dark from closed doors and lack of life, stretched on forever and twisted into nothingness. 

John growled and pushed to his feet. The servants didn’t seem at all surprised when he called for his coat and said he was going for a walk. 

London at least had more life to it, especially once he'd gone further than the posh streets of Mayfair where a few ladies he'd tipped his hat to barely acknowledged his gesture once they'd seen a loose thread on his coat or the battered cane in his hand. He wondered idly where Baker or Bow Streets were in relation to him now, at which he might find Sherlock, and whether the few pence in his pocket would get him anywhere at all. 

A bit of conversation with a grocer's boy let him know that the Bow Street Magistrate's Court wasn't too terribly far so John decided to walk. The exercise would do his leg good, after all, and the day was somewhat pleasant. Hopefully his spare change would get him a good way back towards the Sherrinford house if he didn't find Sherlock. 

By the time he'd found the Bow Street offices, John was tired. Still, he asked after Lestrade and was taken straight to a small room cluttered with papers, a disgruntled Lestrade, and Sherlock. 

"John! You're finally here!" 

"Finally? I wasn't aware you were expecting me." 

Lestrade very kindly gestured to a comfortable leather chair wedged in the corner and sent a young lad loitering in the hall for some tea. 

"Where else would you be? Mycroft spends his days running England from his club and you aren't speaking to your brother." 

"Just so. Have you been here all day?" 

Lestrade snorted. "Had sorted through a stack of missing persons before I even made it in this morning." 

"Sherlock, haven't you slept at all?" 

"Sleep is a waste of time!" 

"Nonsense, Sherlock. We can only function at our peak with proper amounts of rest." 

"Perhaps that is true of the mundane population, John, but I simply don't need it. Look at how much I've accomplished while you spent your day sleeping." 

"You've accomplished making quite a mess, Sherlock," John retorted with a half-smile. "And I'll have you know that I also had hours of bloody fittings this afternoon, and I walked here from your brother's house." 

Sherlock gave a miniscule, "Hmph," in return and continued peering at the two pieces of paper spread flat on Lestrade's desk. A moment later, he jumped up and held each sheet against the window to observe the watermark. 

"What are you looking at?" 

When Sherlock didn't answer, Lestrade did. He handed John a cup of tea as he did so. 

"Two letters were addressed to Sherlock, in care of Bow Street, mentioning the hands and now the feet." 

"Letters?" John knew his voice sounded a bit weak, so he cleared his throat as if he felt a little froggy. "What do they say?" 

"Here," Sherlock strode around the desk and handed John the papers. "Do have a look and tell me what you think." 

John took the first and examined the two short lines on the page. 

> _Five little hands, waving hello._

> _Do they tell you what you want to know?_

"When did you get this?" 

"Shortly after we found the hands." 

"Was this letter why you left Essex in such a rush?" 

Sherlock confirmed this with a nod. "If I had been told about the hands in the first place, I never would have left London." He was clearly still a bit bitter about his brother's intervention. 

The second letter was also a mere two lines, written in the same careful, perfect script. 

> _Care to waltz? Shall we meet?_

> _My tribute to you: four left feet._

"It's going to be a rather clumsy dance; all left feet, yah?" 

"John, this is hardly the time for levity," Sherlock scolded, but the corners of his eyes were lifted, like he was schooling his mouth very carefully not to smile. "Now, tell me, what do you see?" 

"I see a madman leading you on a merry dance." 

"John, at least try." 

John sighed and looked again at the letters. 

"Waltz leads with the left foot. He offered you his hand, he's leading in the dance." 

"Hmm, go on, get to something useful." 

"Well, the waltz is a rather intimate dance, Sherlock." 

"Is it?" 

"Don’t you know it?" 

"Not important." Sherlock paused a moment. "What if it is? Show me." Sherlock stood from where he'd leaned against the edge of Lestrade's desk. 

"Show you?" John glanced at Lestrade and the man shrugged, moving into the doorway so he was out of the way. Papers still littered the open floor space, but there would be room enough for a simple demonstration. 

"Yes, John. It may be vitally important!" 

John sighed and pushed himself out of the chair. He removed his greatcoat and laid it across his seat. 

"I expect I'll be total rubbish, what with my leg and all." 

"We don't need to careen across a ballroom. Just show me the steps." 

"Very well. The most popular, the French waltz, begins with a promenade, like so." John stood next to Sherlock, hip-to-hip, facing the opposite direction, and put his arm across Sherlock's waist. He pulled Sherlock's right arm across his in return. "Sometimes, the posture is different." John shifted so that he faced Sherlock, arm one arm still around his back, their free arms joined at the hand. He guided Sherlock into position, tucked in very close to him. 

John made the mistake of demonstrating the eye contact common in the dance. He forgot that he'd been about to mention the difference between the French waltz and the German waltz, and which steps and positions were common to each. His mind went blank except for the tall, striking man in his arms. 

Sherlock pulled back to see what John's feet were doing. They were still. 

"Aside from the close positioning, this doesn't seem like a very scandalous dance," Sherlock stated. 

"That's because you're not dancing with a woman," Lestrade offered. "A vigorous dance leads to a heaving bosom." 

John flushed and pulled away. Of course Sherlock wasn't affected. 

"Is that all?" Sherlock asked. 

"No, no," he coughed falsely, trying to gather time and his mind together. "There are usually two other parts before the final pirouette. They would step like so." 

John demonstrated, Sherlock's attention now on his feet. He was not fluent with the steps any longer, but he managed to go through the proper movements. "The dance would progress to faster movements in the third part of the dance, moving in a circle." 

"How do you know all that?" Lestrade asked. John's blush deepened with the knowledge that both men were watching him quite markedly. 

"Officers were expected to be sociable." 

"I don't believe the specifics of the dance will be of any use," Sherlock said suddenly, returning to the chair he'd commandeered behind Lestrade's desk. He set his elbows upon his knees and steepled his fingers in front of his lips. 

Gratefully, John sank back into the chair in the corner. 

Sherlock began to list, in his fashion, everything he knew about the waltz. He could name composers, pieces of music, tempo, that Countess de Lieven introduced the waltz at Almack's two years prior, much to the chagrin of the other Patronesses most likely. The last little bit of social trivia was startling, but whether he was mumbling to himself or expected John and Lestrade to take note was unclear. 

"So I take it there will be no waltzing at your wedding? Pity, that." 

Both Sherlock and John glared at a laughing Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of research on the waltz revealed exactly why it was so scandalous at the time. The Austrian waltz we are familiar with today, made popular in the Victorian Era, is very tame compared to the ones danced during the Regency. Depending on the version of the dance, it may have included steps or little kicks between a lady's legs. ;) The popular country dances and reels rarely involved clutching your parter so close while doing a vigorous dance sometimes similar to a modern polka. I've done my best to describe it in a shortened version.
> 
> This link was helpful! http://walternelson.com/dr/shocking-waltz


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock returned John back to his brother's home in time for supper. Sherlock declined to enter, informing John that both Mycroft and Harry were currently in residence and that he'd be much better off dining elsewhere that night. However, Sherlock dashed off before John could inquire if that was an invitation to dine with _him_ , so John entered the house. 

Harry was in a mood and Lord Sherrinford ignored it, asking utterly mundane and impersonal questions about his day. When the questions turned around to John, he wasn't quite sure what to reply. _I spent the night and most of the day with my fiancé and a couple of bags of rotting body parts._ Surely not proper dinner conversation. He tried to avoid the topic entirely and thanked Lord Sherrinford for the clothing he was having made for John, something generally above and beyond his duties. 

"You're very welcome, Captain Watson. We must have you outfitted in the latest to properly present you to our acquaintances. I do hope you like the wedding suit in particular. I had it modeled after your uniform." 

John's mouth tightened. "It is quite a fine-looking suit, Lord Sherrinford." It was, and it fit well, but John was no longer part of the army. He wouldn't have chosen the pattern. Lord Sherrinford just inclined his head slightly. 

"Tomorrow will be a busy day. The members of the family who must travel will arrive then. I do expect both of you around for tea and introductions." 

"Sherlock and myself?" 

"Heavens, no, they already know Sherlock." Lord Sherrinford laughed at his little joke. "No, you and Sir Harold. We want them to see what a fine young man will be joining our family." 

"Of course, Lord Sherrinford, I shall make it a point to be available." 

John spent the day in the sitting room, alternately reading and greeting even more eccentric Holmes relatives with Lord Sherrinford and Harry. Many of them had the same sharp, probing eyes as Sherlock, though few had his utter disdain for formality. A few, to John's delight, insinuated that they had expected this invitation due to Mycroft's wedding, not Sherlock's, and that they were anxiously awaiting word of the next heir. This managed to make Lord Sherrinford color and cough into his fist. He could only indicate that he chose to settle his brother first before focusing on himself. 

John tried to remember all names like Aberforth and Euphemia and Drucilla, Philander and Petrina, Lord Talmadge and his young twins Engelbert and Ebenezer. He'd never spoken so many syllables in his life. A few looked rather amused at his name, John, the most common name in the country, the name given even to the anonymous man John Doe. Try as he might, he only could later recall one of Sherlock's great-aunts, Eunicetine, because of the staggering amount of feathers she wore in her hair (fanned out much like a peacock's tail) and the fact that the old woman's hands wandered quite freely. Far too freely. 

Still, John found himself having a surprisingly amusing afternoon and evening. He and Harry didn't have much extended family and they were not as jovial and familiar as those who descended upon the Sherrinford house. 

"It is a bit overwhelming now, Captain Watson, but they will be diluted among the ton who will attend the ball tomorrow evening in celebration of the nuptials." Lord Sherrinford had finally finished a last introduction of a latecomer, Barindel Holmes. The gentleman had assessed John quite thoroughly, but he was used to it now. 

"Oh, I don't mind in the least," John said, drinking from his glass of champagne quite newly imported from France. "Everyone has been lovely." And they had been. Everyone was so pleased that Sherlock had agreed to marry, even if the man wasn't here to dispel any lingering fancies that this was a love match. John had flushed when Amphasia Holmes had kissed both his cheeks and declared him adorable and quite what Sherlock needed. 

"The reports indicate they are just as taken with you, Captain Watson. Quite interesting."


	25. Chapter 25

John stood at the top of the stairs the morning of his wedding heading down for breakfast, when the front door burst open and a seething mass of Sherlock swarmed inside. Though to be honest, he wasn't sure what monster from the depths of the Thames had burst inside at first. It wasn't until the voice, that voice, _his_ voice rose over the kerfuffle declaring, "This is completely unnecessary!" that John had any inkling of this raggedy creature being the man he was due to marry in a matter of hours. 

The ragged mass separated into several officers and one disgruntled Sherlock, and Lestrade himself stepped in behind, a smug look upon his face. 

"I promised your brother I would have you here in time, Mr. Holmes, no matter what methods I had to employ to accomplish the feat." 

"You put me in a Black Maria, Lestrade." The tone was pure disgust. 

"And I'll put you back in on the way to the magistrate if that is what it takes." 

"I gave my word." Haughty. 

John slowly descended the staircase, eyes awfully wide. 

"Sherlock…" But he was interrupted by an unseemly bellow from none other than Lord Sherrinford. 

"Sherlock Holmes, what have you been doing? Swimming in the Thames? On the morning of your wedding?" 

"Mycroft," Sherlock began, but was cut off. 

"You will bathe immediately! Twice!" John had never seen Lord Sherrinford angry, or for that matter, display any particular emotion. The man turned as red in the face as an apple, yes, with some sickly green behind. 

"And that filth you are wearing will be burned!" 

Heads started popping out of doors and John felt an audience behind his back at the stair railing. 

"No! I spent months on this disguise! It took forever to get the fray and the dirt and the _smell_ just right!" 

"Well, it wasn't very effective from keeping the good men of Bow Street in the dark, was it?" 

"That is not what it is for, you blithering…" 

"Upstairs!" 

If Sherlock's person had not been quite so foetid, his brother surely would have laid hands on him. As it was, several resigned-looking footmen crowded around Sherlock and started to usher him upstairs. 

"Handcuffs, Lestrade!" Sherlock called over his shoulder. 

The detective, still very smug, trotted forward and pulled the key out from… his _shoe_. 

"Dammit, your stride was a little stiff in the foot. I can't believe I didn't deduce it! I thought you had a blister from your new footwear. You're learning quickly, old man." Sherlock sounded like he was almost proud of Lestrade for besting him. 

"I'll have to get especially creative if there is a next time, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade unlocked the cuffs and Sherlock moved his thin hands in circles to renew his circulation. 

"Indeed." 

The footman reinstated their escort, herding Sherlock as much as possible without touching his rank clothes. 

"Good morning, John!" Sherlock called jovially as he spied his intended on the stair. 

"Good morning, Sherlock," John replied a little less certainly. 

"Lovely day for a wedding, is it not?" 

And that appalling man _winked_ at him as he passed by. 

_Mad, he's mad_ , John thought, continuing down the stairs as he heard Sherlock laugh behind him, sprinting towards the bathing room. John turned the corner at the foot of the stairs and entered the breakfast room, where all the snickering Holmes' had hurriedly reoccupied their seats. He couldn’t help but hear the last of the conversation in the hallway as he seated himself. 

"Handcuffs and a Black Maria, Lestrade? Was that really necessary?" But Lord Sherrinford didn't look put out in the least as he and 

Lestrade shared a conspiratorial chuckle. 

"He deserved the first. A hack would have done but none would allow him inside to muck up their interior." 

"Good man, good man." Lord Sherrinford tossed a small bag of coin in Lestrade's direction.


	26. Chapter 26

The next debacle of the day (there would be many, so keep in mind that this is only the second and they hadn't even left for the magistrate's office yet) was when Sherlock adamantly refused to ride with Lord Sherrinford in his carriage. 

"It's ridiculous that tradition states I cannot arrive in the same carriage as John." 

"Propriety, Sherlock. You have already flouted convention by dragging Captain Watson all over London at all times of the day and night." 

"Mycroft, what difference does it make? He and I will be married in an hour. What makes it more proper after signing papers than before? Really?" 

"Taking vows, Sherlock. Promising your life to someone." 

"As far as I am concerned, I made those vows already when I agreed to marry John in the first place!" 

"You are being petty and ridiculous, Sherlock." 

"So are you!" 

"I don't have a problem with riding in the carriage with Sherlock, Lord Sherrinford," John interrupted, a bit flattered that Sherlock was fighting so hard to ride in the carriage with him. Of course, it could be that he was simply fighting to _not_ ride in a carriage with his brother. _It doesn't really matter his reasons_ , John told himself. "I agree with him. It is a tradition that means very little to either of us. And it is _our_ wedding day." 

Both men turned to John, shocked he'd opened his mouth, much less agreed with Sherlock. Sherlock recovered first, gloating openly at his brother. 

"Fine," Lord Sherrinford finally gritted out. "I suppose a little unconventional behavior is expected from Sherlock anyway." He quickly reorganized the occupants of the parade of carriages that would take everyone from the house to the magistrate's office. Several of the more venerable Holmes relatives were accompanying them to the small ceremony; others would remain at the house until they returned for the celebrations. 

A few efficient moments later and Sherlock and John had a carriage to themselves and were riding to the magistrate's office. Arranged marriages like theirs, and other marriages involving such a large exchange of money , took place in more legal settings. They could have a religious ceremony at a church if they wished, but Lord Sherrinford had quite correctly interpreted that his brother would only become much more difficult as the day dragged on and tried to make the formalities as concise as possible. 

"So where precisely did Lestrade find you this morning?" John's question drew Sherlock's attention away from the window. He'd been more subdued since his (second) argument (of the day) with his brother. 

John was glad that whatever smell the wretched clothing had been imbued with had not permanently stuck to Sherlock. That would have made this carriage ride, not to mention life in general, very unpleasant indeed. His clothing now was very fine: black trousers, bottle green jacket which turned his grey eyes into the color of the ocean, starched whites so bright that they brought color to Sherlock's pale skin. His curly hair had been trimmed but still fell over his forehead and along his high collar. 

John was very expensively done up for the occasion, but compared to Sherlock, he felt dowdy, very country. The man was simply stunning. His slim grace was only enhanced by the well-tailored clothing. John had to tear away his gaze before he started picturing Sherlock out of the well-tailored clothing. It wouldn’t do to deliberately frustrate himself. 

"I was down by Blackfriars Bridge interviewing the mudlarks who spotted the bag of feet." 

"And this required the smelly rags you were wearing?" 

"If I wanted them to actually speak to me, not run or rob me, yes. They had to believe I lived rough as they do." 

"I see. But I thought they'd already talked to Lestrade's men or the River Police." 

Sherlock snorted. 

"The boys Lestrade's men talked to were not the boys who found the bag. It was passed through several hands before the River Police were summoned, and once more before the Runners got there." 

"But why would they do that?" 

"They're practically feral, John. They do what they must to survive, though most don't. They certainly wouldn't survive very long if they were known to talk to the police." 

"But some of them did talk to the police." 

"Obviously. But only the ones who weren't actually there. Do keep up, John." 

John paused to process the idea. 

"So did you find the ones who were actually there?" 

Sherlock nodded. "Gave me a good tip, too. Two little beggars tried to lift the man's purse and got up close and personal when the man tossed them into the gutter." 

"Goodness! Would they be able to identify him?" 

"Could, but won't if they know what's good for them. However, I'm quite keen to do what is bad for me, so they passed along the description." 

"Well?" 

"Tall as me, dark hair, scruff, but most telling of all was the fact that someone had apparently tried to slit his throat recently enough that the wound had been stitched but had not begun to heal." 

John didn't know what to say about that, but they pulled up to the magistrate's office and all John was required to say for the next half hour was, "I will."


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock observed the man standing before him as the magistrate informed them both of the serious nature of their promises, the obligations of marriage, and whatever sentimental drivel he chose to throw in along the way. John had clearly charmed his notorious family if the smiles behind him, particularly on Great-Aunt Eunicetine's face, said anything at all. 

And now, John stood straight and proud, a serviceman's posture, and appeared to be listening quite closely to every word being said. Sherlock knew about Harry's failings and John's valiant attempt to right everything. He was marrying a stranger, marrying _Sherlock_ , to save everyone whose livelihoods depended on his brother's estate. It was noble, if a bit… well, no, Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to call the gesture 'stupid.' John apparently thrived on self-sacrifice, first with the medical degree, then the army, now this. 

Now John was looking at him, stonily he would say. Uh oh. He'd missed something. 

"I do apologize," Sherlock said quietly. "My mind wandered." 

"It's fine, Sherlock." John's hand reached out and touched his arm, took Sherlock's hand in his. "Sir, please repeat the question." Calm. Caring. Not angry that Sherlock had drifted off, though he could feel Mycroft seething at his side. 

"Will you, Sherlock Holmes, take this man, Captain John Hamish Watson, to be your lawful husband, your helpmeet through all the triumphs and challenges this life may bring?" 

"I will." John's hand squeezed his. Sherlock tried to tamp down the millions, no, thousands, no, hundreds, no, the _one_ thought he had about John's hand in his. 

"Will you offer your solemn vow to be true to your chosen companion, in the presence of your family and friends?" 

"I will so vow." 

"Will you promise to honor and respect your husband, cherish him in good times and bad, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?" 

"I will." 

There, his part was done. Sherlock blew out a breath. It had been more difficult than he had thought. Sherlock, no matter what anyone believed, did not give his word lightly. Mycroft relaxed a little beside him as John solemnly repeated his required responses. They moved forward to begin signing the papers. For John and Sherlock, it was just their marriage certificate and the magistrate's ledger. For Mycroft, Harry and two other witnesses, it was much more, taking several quiet minutes. 

"You are so dutiful, John," Sherlock whispered to his new husband. John stood facing forward, quite strong and stoic. "I'm not making fun. I can admire a quality without wishing it upon myself." There, that broke John's shell a little. He almost smiled. 

Their brothers stepped back into their places after flourishing their signatures and shaking hands with the magistrate and the other. The magistrate cleared his throat, settling the assemblage of Holmes' who'd begun to whisper in the interim. 

"I will now ask for Mr. Holmes and Captain Watson to share a kiss of peace and seal their promises to each other." 

Sherlock tried somewhat unsuccessfully to contain the blush that rose to his face; his high cheekbones became suffused with red heat. John had turned to look at him and lifted his face. Of course, John was too short to kiss him without his cooperation. Sherlock leaned forward and brushed his lips over the upturned corner of John's mouth as perfunctorily as possible. Much to his chagrin, the familial spectators applauded his miniscule effort. John seemed pleased enough, though and took his arm as they turned and were presented for the first time as husbands.


	28. Chapter 28

John had never shaken so many hands in his life, and not even the entirety of the Holmes family had attended the short ceremony. There had been so many well wishes from unfamiliar faces, but Harry had yet to even offer a 'congratulations,' much less a 'thank you." John hoped Harry was jealous of his brother's welcoming family, of his new husband. It was an ungracious thought, but John couldn't help it. 

"Lord Sherrinford," John said as soon as the carriages started filling to take people back to the house. 

"Yes, Captain Watson?" 

"I don't know how to ask this, but I was wondering…" 

It turned out he didn't have to ask. 

"I sent a messenger with monies for the household servants at your brother's estate this morning. I made sure everyone was well compensated for their loyal service at such a happy time, and perhaps to make up for the leaner times in the past." 

"Thank you, Lord Sherrinford. I didn't really trust my brother to think of it, or to manage it if he did." 

"I hope you know, Captain Watson, I am here to be of assistance to you. Whatever you need, you must only ask." 

John wasn't so sure he wanted to depend so readily on the man, for he had proven to be the manipulative sort, but he did seem to be reliable. But he now pressed a small cloth pouch into John's hand and it clinked with small coin. 

"Do redistribute these on this happy occasion." 

Lord Sherrinford walked off, leaving John to find Sherlock in the crowd at the door. 

"Why is my brother talking to Lestrade?" Sherlock asked as soon as John approached. 

"Is he? He wasn't a second ago." John turned his head in the direction Sherlock had pointed his chin. There were the two men, colluding for the second time that day. Lestrade appeared slightly less jovial than he had mere hours ago and Lord Sherrinford's expression was pained. 

"Shall we find out?" Sherlock quite eagerly grasped John's elbow and drew him along. "Lestrade, is there news?" 

"I apologize for disturbing your wedding day, Holmes, but this really couldn’t wait. I've promised Lord Sherrinford not to keep you more than an hour. Just a detour, really." Lestrade glanced at Lord Sherrinford with meek apology in his eyes. 

"I have agreed you may go, but you must return to the house within the hour. I will not have you ensconced in the morgue the entirety of your wedding day. And do not muss your clothing, if you please." 

Sherlock waved at his brother impatiently, whether to agree or to hurry everything along. "What is it?" The way Sherlock's eyes gleamed, he clearly couldn't have received a better wedding gift than a mystery or a piece to a puzzle. 

"One of the mudlarks was found in the last hour with several crushed ribs and a punctured lung. I was hoping you could identify him so we could notify his family, if he has one." 

"Of course. Coming, John?" Sherlock's eyes kept none of their gleam, as if a solid oak door had slammed behind his eyes and none of his light could escape through the cracks. He proceeded to their wedding coach in silence, allowing John to toss the coins in his hand to the well-wishers who gathered at any wedding, cheering and applauding for the lucky coins strewn to the crowd. Their joyful cries sounded like the sobs of professional mourners, just a bit. 

Lestrade joined them in the coach in spite of the strangeness of it, to answer Sherlock's questions. 

"Where was he found?" 

"In that little alley behind Lorstan Street, near Vechney. Anderson thinks he was struck by a carriage." 

"And then, what, dragged himself down that alley to die of a punctured lung?" Sherlock's tone reverted back to his annoyed-with-stupidity normalcy. "How was the body arranged?" 

"Curled up in a ball, behind a crate. He was next to an alley door a merchant used for deliveries or he might not yet have been found." 

"Did anyone actually see him get struck by a wagon or carriage?" 

"No one has come forward as a witness, no. I still have a few men asking around." 

Sherlock huffed. 

"I shall have to examine the body. I will be quick about it," he added, peremptorily defensive. Neither John nor Lestrade offered any sort of fight.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a belated warning, I suppose, for the young victim

John was sure that the resplendent sight of Lord Sherrinford's gilded coach drew more than a few eyes as their driver pulled up outside the hospital near the morgue entrance. Sherlock neither noticed nor cared, and merely dismounted and left John and Lestrade to follow in his wake. 

"I truly am sorry for interrupting your wedding day, Captain Watson," Lestrade said as they followed Sherlock inside. "I guess it will be something you'll become accustomed to, married to a Holmes." 

"It's only been an hour, Lestrade, and it's interesting already." 

Lestrade chuckled. "That's the spirit. So I'm guessing there is no honeymoon trip planned?" 

"Can't imagine dragging Sherlock out of London right now, can you?" 

"Mighty understanding of you." 

"I've spent enough time away from England, anyway. I'd prefer to settle in. Just moving to London is enough of a change from Essex and a hell of a change from France." 

Lestrade grunted in agreement and opened the morgue door for John, gesturing the gentleman inside ahead. 

Sherlock stood at the table where a small body lay. The clothing had not yet been completely removed, but the body was flat on the table. Sherlock cautiously moved one of the limbs and, while it didn’t flop loosely, it wasn't completely stiffened with rigor, either. John moved up behind his husband and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"Is it one of the boys you spoke to last night?" he asked in a low voice. 

Sherlock did not precisely move away because John's hand was on his shoulder, but he did find that he needed to examine the body from another angle, one out of John's reach. 

"His name is James, usually called Moss. His mother is Frannie Sue. She works on Fetcher Street in Whitechapel, but you will most likely find her at the Cock and Sow. No real point in finding her, Lestrade, she already knows." 

Sherlock picked away at the roughly stitched shirt the boy was wearing. The sleeves of a much larger shirt had been folded back along his short, skinny arms and the cuffs fastened with black stitches near his shoulder. The excess fabric around his wrists was pinched with stitches. The too-wide collar was tethered closed with a bit of cording and the billowing fabric around his waist was wrapped around him more than twice. It helped keep him warm under a tattered jacket more loose thread than weave. 

"How would she know?" 

"The children, Lestrade, they're everywhere," Sherlock said impatiently. "The eyes and ears of this city. Find her, if you must, but she will have no facts to add. She's likely been soused since hearing of it." 

Sherlock pulled up the boy's shirt and began examining the ribs that had been broken. John could see the breaks clearly through the thin layer of skin on the fragile-looking boy. His chest had been crushed; he'd had no chance. The boy could have been any age from five to ten, he thought. His height and weight were sleight, but often malnourished children ceased to grow. John reached for his mouth to see if any adult teeth had broken through yet or not. He wished he had a little more light. Even with the windows, the room was dank. 

Sherlock began laying his forearm against the boy's chest in varying angles. 

"Don't look at me like that, John. Mycroft will make both of us change anyway, just for having set foot in this place. Wouldn't want to bring the stench of inevitability to the party." 

John hummed in response. Sherlock turned the body onto its stomach, easily shifting the small boy into the new position. Again he moved aside the shirt and coat, took in every detail with his sharp eyes, and rolled the body back again. When he finished his perusal he stood straight. 

"What do you see, John?" 

John examined the boy another few minutes and Sherlock seemed content to wait for his appraisal. 

"The deceased is a young boy about seven or eight judging by the eruption of several adult teeth but missing others and no adult molars yet. He lived rough judging by the condition of his clothes and the thinness of his body. He rarely had enough to eat. Lack of pronounced rigor indicates he likely died within the last three or four hours, though I'd prefer to confirm that with a temperature reading. Cause of death: pneumothorax, given the cyanosis, spots of blood on the lips, and several compound fractures of the ribs." 

"Is that all?" 

"What else do you want me to say?" 

"The most important thing! The cause!" 

"Pneumothorax, as I said. His lung became punctured and, untreated, he eventually asphyxiated and died. It was a drawn out, painful, unnecessary death for a small boy, Sherlock." 

"Exactly!" 

"What?" 

"He may have died only a few hours ago, but he was left to die by someone incapable of making his death quick and painless." 

"What do you mean, Holmes?" Lestrade jumped in. He'd been observing the two men examining the corpse, each in their own particular way. 

"Look at the fractures." Sherlock demonstrated by laying his arm against the boy's chest again. "They match the length and direction of a man's arm, in a way that suggests he was holding a struggling boy tight to him. Any accomplished murderer would have brained him against the cobbles or the brick of a building, or snapped his neck. But this murderer was clumsy, ham-handed even. He simply squeezed the boy until he stopped moving, dropped him and ran away. Bumbling oaf." 

"That's ghastly, Sherlock." 

Sherlock's feverish eyes rose to meet John's somewhat appalled ones. 

"Not good?" 

"Bit not good, yah." 

Sherlock looked a bit flustered. "It would have been a kindness to the lad to have died more efficiently." 

John was only slightly mollified by this turn of phrase. 

"So we're looking for a rather inept killer, then?" Lestrade asked, clutching one wrist with the opposite hand behind his back and looking for the moment like a completely capable officer of law and order, even if Sherlock's pronouncement baffled him. 

"Yes, at the very least." Sherlock rolled the body away from him, just a little, and closely examined the boy's collar, pinching a few stray hairs away with his gloved fingertips. 

"Sherlock, we ought to be getting back soon. Your brother will become concerned." 

"You mean angry, John. Try to speak accurately." 

"Yes, Sherlock, angry," John humored him. 

"I'll only be a few more minutes." Sherlock took his prizes to a microscope that faced a window. After a few moments of adjustments to the mirror and the lens, he spent some time in silence bent over the eyepiece. Shortly, though, he folded up the hairs in a piece of paper and stuck it in his inner pocket. 

"Anything else, Sherlock?" 

"Tall, my height at least, lumbering gait but not thickly built. Unkempt, but his clothing would be fine enough not to not leave behind stray fibers. There is a little bit of dried fluid on the back of the boy's neck, perhaps blood thinned with saliva, though with the variety of smells from the boy's lifestyle, death, and location in the morgue, it is difficult to pinpoint." 

John looked at the spot on the boy's neck, drawn in by utter curiosity. There was a smudge of cleanliness, incongruous. The gloss over the spot was faintly pink. 

"It could be the boy's own blood. He coughed into his hand, swiped the back of his neck," John suggested. 

"There is no such evidence on either of his hands, John. Thus, our killer is either injured or ill. Our work is done here, John. Good day, Lestrade." 

Sherlock quite abruptly swept out the door. 

"Yeah, he's always like that. Go on, John, while he's of a mind. Enjoy your wedding day. I'll have a search around and send a message if I find anything more." 

"Thank you, Mr. Lestrade. Would you care to stop by the house for a drink later?" 

"Heavens, no. The place will be crawling with high-arsed toffs who look down on a man for having an occupation." Lestrade smiled, mollifying his words. "Thanks for the invitation, though, Captain Watson. Now, go before your husband convinces the coachman to drive along without you." 

John lurched into the coach and was barely settled when Sherlock knocked on the roof to signal the driver. 

"John," Sherlock breathed, his eyes alight. "Our killer is leaking." He illustrated this statement with one forefinger drawing across the base of his neck. 

"Dear Lord, Sherlock, what does that mean?" 

"I haven't the faintest idea! Isn't it wonderful?"


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock was quite correct that Lord Sherrinford made them both change before joining the festivities. John wondered if this fastidiousness wasn't less related to the faint smell of the lower parts of the city clinging to them and more that he wanted to separate the new couple and have harsh words with his brother in private. 

Sherlock, however, knew this to be entirely true. 

"Sherlock, I do suggest you at least attempt to play the part of loving husband." Mycroft stood stiffly by the door as his personal valet attended to Sherlock's wardrobe. He'd been resigned to Sherlock's attendance at the morgue even on his wedding day, but he wasn't about to tolerate a minute more of his brother's eccentricities. 

"I despise playing roles for you, Mycroft. You know I don't care what people think. Especially these people." Sherlock craned his neck as the valet tied the cravat around his high collar, pale features twisted in annoyance. 

"I won't deny that it would benefit me for my brother to appear happily settled. But it may also benefit you to be seen by certain persons as utterly off the market, so to speak." 

Sherlock huffed. 

"As if that truly mattered in this crowd." Sherlock batted away the valet's professional hands and loosened the neckcloth an inch, retying the knots himself. It didn't look quite as proper, but Mycroft said nothing, knowing it was a true blessing that Sherlock was doing anything he asked at all. 

"If the Regent attends, I cannot bar her entrance to the house." 

They both fell silent, appraising each other. Mycroft, Lord Sherrinford, could not snub the mistress of the acting king, and Sherlock avoided The Woman as avidly as he avoided speaking her name. 

"She will behave quite properly in company," Sherlock soon proclaimed. "And I will have John by my side." 

"I think you underestimate the harm she can do even while 'behaving properly,' as you say." 

"There is little else to be done, brother, but suffer through." Mycroft thought he'd never seen his brother speak so like Mycroft himself. 

Sherlock strode past and into the hallway, tousling his curls a bit with a white-gloved hand. He unerringly entered John's dressing room, where his husband leaned on his cane while staring in the mirror. 

"Are you ready, John?"


	31. Chapter 31

"Are you ready, John?" 

His new husband's voice woke John from his reverie. He'd never expected his life to end up like this. A year ago he'd been living rough in the army, sometimes staying awake for days performing endless surgeries and watching good young men die anyway. He'd rarely had time to stop and think, and when he had, he slept. But now the war was over and the army had no use for a captain with a bum leg. His brother had grudgingly accepted him into his home to recover from his injury but had found a new place for him as soon as possible. 

And this new place, well, wasn't this world a marvel? John hated that he might be tempted to _thank_ Harry one day. He was given money enough to be comfortable, fine clothes, a home to share with an interesting husband (a stunning, impetuous, brilliant husband) and all he had to do to earn it was bear the whorls of the ton for a night. Maybe one day he'd be asked for more (God, he begged to be asked for more by his aloof husband, but hadn't it been clear enough that he wouldn't be?) but for now, all this had required was a signature and a promise. They'd muddle along and find their lives together along the way. 

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm ready. I'd rather be announced from the foot of the stairs, though." John brandished his cane. 

"Of course." 

And so it was that Captain and Mr. Watson-Holmes were announced upon entrance to the dining room rather than having the guests gather at the foot of the stairs only to watch as John would carefully pick his way down the staircase. 

The following meal was not so intolerable. John did find Sherlock's relatives rather fascinating. He found himself seated next to Petrina Holmes, a well-educated woman who had recently returned from the West Indies and she had quite absorbing tales of life there. 

"I do quite miss the heat and the sun," she declared, still with an unfashionable golden glow to her skin. "I desired nothing more than to be marooned on one of those islands, living out my days simply and wild." 

"And yet you returned to civilization, Miss Holmes," John inquired with wonder. 

"Civilization is encroaching upon the wilderness, Captain Watson," she replied sadly. "I believe that I shall explore Africa from the Mediterranean to the Cape of Good Hope next year." 

"Goodness. That land is so vast, I might never have the pleasure of meeting you again." 

"And a hundred years from now," she added, "there will be tales of a mysterious woman who explored the jungles and made peace treaties with the tigers!" 

"To peace treaties with the tigers, Miss Holmes." 

They touched wine glasses and laughed together when John caught Sherlock's eyes on him from across the table. Sherlock's eyes darted away when he was caught, but John still felt a twinge of hope in his belly. He'd been looking, perhaps he'd been admiring. 

Don't be foolish, John. The man had made no overt gesture signaling any intention of consummating their marriage. And that was fine. The circumstance of their marriage made for an awkward situation. But still, John couldn't help but acknowledge that he himself felt something, felt yearning. It could be controlled. It _would_ be controlled until he understood otherwise.


	32. Chapter 32

The number of guests more than tripled as the sun faded from the sky. All the dividers in the ballroom had been opened until it nearly spanned the length of the manor's west wing. Between the roaring fireplaces and the hundreds of candles reflected in dozens of mirrors, the place was ablaze with light and heat. The crush of people, as well, kept the room warm despite the balcony doors being opened to the gardens. 

Sherlock and John were separated for some time after dinner, until Sherlock found him speaking with an ambassador of some sort in their only common language: quite rusty Latin. Sherlock tucked John's free hand around his elbow and smiled graciously at the man. John's fingers tightened under Sherlock's, but other than that, he showed no outward expression of surprise. 

_Interesting_ , Sherlock thought, _he has his shining, smiling party mask as well._

Sherlock moved John to one guest after another, making introductions and showing his most polite face. It was the in-between that had John's face red with laughter. 

"You shouldn't be telling me that, even if you know it, Sherlock," John huffed, wiping a tear from his eye. The Italian ambassador apparently favored a red satin corset and padded his breeches as well as his stockings to appear much more robust and well-formed than he was. 

Sherlock merely winked and wheeled John around to meet Lady Ravensford, a young woman newly married to an older Lord, and even more newly debauched by… Sherlock glanced around… the youngest of her husband's sons, newly in London to attend university. 

"My, you are the worst gossip," John scolded, with an incongruous grin on his face once the young lady had departed. "How do you know it was not someone else? There are a lot of people here; perhaps more than one couple has snuck off for a tryst in a quiet corner." 

"No doubt that is true, John, but she is young and newly wed. She has hardly had the time to make a wide acquaintance in this circle. She would be familiar with her new family. Not to mention, they returned to the ballroom from different doors, but too close to the same time for coincidence. They are both too silly and inexperienced to hide it." 

Sherlock's deductions warmed John's ear and tickled his neck just beneath his collar. The taller man leaned closely to John so he could speak softly. Sherlock understood discretion; he simply chose not to employ it much of the time. But since his close confidence and toeing the line of propriety with wild accusations was amusing John, he found it useful not to blatantly insult everyone in the room like he might otherwise do. 

And John, he was even more golden when he laughed with Sherlock. His eyes alighted on him and lingered. His hand stayed firmly wrapped around Sherlock's elbow and Sherlock knew his arm would feel cold when John finally pulled away. John was having a good time and Sherlock found he was delighted to keep entertaining the man. How unusual. 

These thoughts were interrupted by yet another politician, one Lord Crossham, whom Sherlock had met more professionally. Sherlock hardly had to open his mouth for introductions before the good-natured man reached out his hand. 

"Your husband, Holmes here, tracked down a diamond set that had belonged to my grandmother," the man said as he shook John's hand vigorously. "Even Bow Street turned up their nose at it, but within two weeks, this one walked to a completely random tree in Hyde Park, reached into a knothole, and pulled out thousands of pounds worth of jewels!" "It wasn't random, obviously," Sherlock stated, rolling his eyes. John grinned at him. 

"So how did you figure out where they were stashed?" 

"Followed the thief when he hid the next thing he stole, a pair of pearl drop earrings from Lady Abbotsford, I believe." 

"And your discovery of the thief?" 

"Elementary. As the jewels weren't immediately dismantled and pawned – none of my contacts had come across anything of the sort – the criminal must have been taking things for fun, from houses or people in his acquaintance. It was merely tracing rumors of other thefts, comparing their invitation lists and investigating the suspects. Honestly, I don't know why Bow Street hadn't gotten anywhere with it." 

"Likely no runner wanted to be in a position to accuse gentry of theft," John said, ever the voice of reason. 

"If they'd even the mind to consider the option," Sherlock added smugly. 

"Either way, it didn't earn them any favors," Lord Crossham concluded. "However, it enhanced my opinion of Holmes here, greatly." 

John and Sherlock had barely excused themselves when they turned right into a breath-takingly lovely woman resplendent in emerald, both in gown and in jewel. Her dark hair was twisted up quite simply, despite the Grecian curls that seemed to be in fashion. This woman did not need to obey fashion to be beautiful. 

"My dear Mr. Holmes! Would you care to dance?" Her voice was warm and honey-toned. 

"You know very well that I do not dance," Sherlock returned stiffly, cupping his free hand over John's fingers where they curled around his elbow. He might have moved himself and John away entirely if giving this woman the cut direct wouldn't place him in a more awkward position, both with his brother and with having to explain to John _why_. 

"Oh, but now that you are married, surely you will be enticed into a turn on the floor now and then by your handsome husband?" Her eyes glinted with repressed laughter. John lifted his cane. "He has been forgiven from such tedious activities, my lady." 

"Captain Watson, my most heartfelt congratulations on your acquisition." She offered one black satin-gloved hand to John. "And since Mr. Holmes will never introduce us properly, allow me to do so. Lady Adler." She beamed, inordinately pleased when John bent and brushed his lips to the back of her hand. 

"I was astonished at the news that Mr. Holmes was to marry. I can certainly see why he would be convinced." Her melodious voice was altered only slightly by the sly smile on her face. "Such nice manners on your _inamorato_ , Mr. Holmes." 

Sherlock glared at her and changed the subject. "So, you finally managed to convince the Prince Regent to bestow a title on you, Irene." 

She reacted by giving no reaction other than a simple smile. 

"Yes, Prinny has been quite generous. He's even hinted that the title could become hereditary if I produced a son." 

"Will you? Are you?" Sherlock realized he was far too intent on the answer and schooled his features with a touch more disinterest. 

"Really, do I look like one who would do such a thing only to benefit ungrateful future generations?" She ran the edge of her fan up Sherlock's arm, stepping closer and smiling up at him. Sherlock felt John's grip on his other arm tighten. 

"Hardly, Irene." Sherlock quite pointedly shifted away. 

"You know me so very, very well." She cocked her head, examining the two of them together. "I do hope we will run into each other again very soon. I imagine Prinny is quite bereft without me." 

With a flicker of her eyes over the pair of them, she swanned away and disappeared into the crowd. 

"Goodness, Sherlock, how do you know her?" 

"We used to frequent some of the same house parties. She was not always as elevated as she imagines herself to be now." 

"House parties?" Sherlock at a house party? In the dull country? That would mean keeping company and polite conversation and no running off to investigate crimes and examine bodies in the morgue. John couldn't imagine it. 

"We had some mutual acquaintances when I attended lectures at the university." 

"If I didn't know better, Sherlock, I would say the two of you had been involved." That came out before John thought better. He bit his lips together and looked away before he flushed. 

"Jealousy is one of her many tools, John," Sherlock replied with a cool edge. "She is a cat, invested only in the hunt and toying with her food before she devours it. She only plays her game with me because she can't believe how fruitless the endeavor is." 

"I apologize, Sherlock." 

"Whatever for? Come now, Mycroft expects me to introduce you to more of his vapid cronies. We should get that over with."


	33. Chapter 33

As the evening lengthened, Sherlock found John a spot at a whist table with his cousin Petrina. John seemed to enjoy her conversation and dinner, and now that his leg was tiring from endless trips up and down the ballroom, he deserved a little time to sit and relax. Petrina promptly arranged the game and seated two others at the table, neither of them Holmes'. 

"Now, Petrina, don't steal away all of John's pride and pocket money," Sherlock said with a wink. 

"Oh, now, cousin, would I do that?" 

John, who showed his relief at being seated for only a brief flicker, was quickly introduced to the two other players and Sherlock left him to seek out a brief moment of quiet. It wouldn't be too long before they could consider their obligation to Mycroft complete and depart for the quiet of Baker Street. There were too many people here, as there always were at Mycroft's entertainments. Sherlock had yet to see the Regent, but no doubt he was holding court in some corner with Irene by his side. 

Sherlock found himself upstairs in his old room, alone, and the voices from downstairs began to fade. Of course, that only made the noise in his head appear louder. 

Sherlock sat in the chair by the window, bowed his head into his hands and closed his eyes. This all hadn't seemed so overwhelming with John on his arm. Sherlock rubbed his elbow; his arm was cold. He took no pleasure in having predicted this correctly. Perhaps he should just go downstairs. Likely no one would allow him at their table, but he could watch John enjoy his game. 

It didn't take Sherlock long to come to his decision and he stood just as someone opened the door. Sherlock was about to scold a wayward guest for daring to use his room as a trysting spot when he realized who the person backlit in the doorway was. 

"Victor." The name dripped from his lips like gurgled-up poison. 

"Sherlock." The man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. For a mere second Victor disappeared from his view when the light from the hallway was closed off, but then Sherlock's eyes adjusted and the slim figure protruded from the darkness. 

"What do you want?" 

"What do I ever want, Sherlock? A bit of your time and attention." 

"No." Sherlock tried to conceive of a plan to escape: forward would only bring him closer to Victor and Mycroft had constantly cleared his balcony of anything useful to climb down even going so far as to remortar the chinks in the brickwork to remove convenient toeholds. "I'm not yours anymore." 

"Yes, yes, married to that bland-looking Watson fellow. Why on earth would you do something like that? So incredibly dull." 

Sherlock couldn't formulate an answer that wouldn't sound defensive or petulant. He went with defensive. 

"John is not dull." 

"Oh, was it true love, then? _Die Liebe auf den ersten Blick_?" The young man faked his overwhelming delight. The inherent cynicism was grating. 

"Victor, you're being dreadfully tedious." Sherlock heaved out a sigh. "As usual." 

That addition brought a glare. 

Sherlock used that moment to brush past Victor and open the door. 

"Oh, I'm sure your limp-legged husband won't _ever_ grow tiresome, Sherlock. Because you never, ever get bored with your toys." 

Sherlock went out the door, practically flew down the hall and strode down the stairs, all too aware that Victor trailed close behind. What he wasn't entirely aware of was the smug look on Victor's handsome face as he languorously followed Sherlock down the stairs. A few glances and whispers among the guests traveling through the foyer made him look back. Victor made a few unnecessary adjustments to his clothing and leered. 

A quick glance at the guests at the foot of the stairs told Sherlock exactly what they surmised had happened in the private rooms upstairs. Well, their lecherous deductions were completely wrong! Sherlock felt his face warm in annoyance. Mycroft was going to be furious, since there was no chance he wouldn't hear of this. Chances were whispers were making their way into his ear this very second. Sherlock's only chance was to have an alibi in John; the man could say that Sherlock had left his side only a very short few minutes. 

_Play the loving husband, Sherlock_. Mycroft's words pecked at his shoulders, hounded him. Was there something else he could do? Find John. 

John was precisely where Sherlock had left him, having received a slice of cake from somewhere and finished most of the dense, fruity dessert. Sherlock absently picked up a crumb and had a taste, resting his hand on John's shoulder. Victor hadn't followed him in here; hopefully he had skulked out of the house now that his mischief was managed. Sherlock's eyes scanned the room for a few moments, noting the occupants and the various games at play. 

When his eyes finally were drawn down to John's table, he was surprised to see Petrina and John in gleeful conspiracy and with already a hearty addition to their token piles of coin. 

"Quite the gambler, are we?" Sherlock mused. 

John chuckled, much to the chagrin of the two non-Holmes' occupants of the table. "There is plenty of boredom while at war. And sometimes the best way to heal a wound is to play a few hands of cards with the unfortunate soldier." 

"Really, John, magically healing card playing? Ridiculous." 

John laughed again and threw down another card. "Do you play, Sherlock?" 

"Only with absolute strangers," Petrina interrupted. "Once someone knows our Sherlock, they wouldn't dare. He can tell which cards I have in my hand by the flyaway hairs on my head, I wager." 

"I'll take that wager. Sherlock, do tell me which cards she has in her hand." 

Sherlock glanced at his cousin. She had a tendency to arrange the cards in proper order, move the cards around in blocks of their suit. Sherlock saw the cards on the table, the cards in John's hand in front of him. Each player had six cards left. 

"Six of hearts, three and queen of diamonds, nine and ten of clubs, king of spades." 

"And this is why no one plays whist with Sherlock." Petrina laid her hand out, exactly as Sherlock had stated. 

"Amazing," John breathed. "I suppose I owe you a forfeit, Miss Holmes." 

"You most certainly do not, John! She wagered that I'd know by her flyaway hairs. I knew because I walked into the room from behind her and saw her cards. It only took deducing the game play I witnessed to narrow down the cards she had left." 

Petrina laughed and flicked over her largest coin into John's pile. "Foiled by semantics." 

"It's still quite brilliant, Sherlock." 

John was looking up at him with that golden look again. 

"It's quite warm in here. I swear Mycroft is a crotchety old woman sometimes, with how he stokes the fires. Come out to the gardens with me." 

The other table occupants exchanged smiling glances. 

"Miss Holmes, if I don't see you again before you head to the Dark Continent, it was a true delight." 

"Oh, I'll impose on your hospitality, I'm sure, Captain Watson, once you are settled. Good evening, cousin." 

"Petrina. Come along, John." 

John dawdled a moment more, politely wishing the others at the table a good night and sweeping up his winnings. He collected his cane and took Sherlock's arm and allowed himself to be lead outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the best of my dubious internet research, "Die Liebe auf den ersten Blick" translates to "love at first sight" in German.


	34. Chapter 34

Sherlock seemed rather desperate for the cool, damp air in the gardens. There were lights placed here and there amongst the topiary and smaller candles flickered along the paths, but mostly the out-of-doors was watery moonlight and deep shadow. John watched Sherlock's eyes dart around in the darkness, taking note of anyone else he saw. A few people had spilled onto the balcony, so Sherlock pulled John onto the lawn. 

"Is everything all right, Sherlock?" John asked when Sherlock had found them a cold stone bench to perch upon. Sherlock leaned back, stretching out his long legs. John sat upright and as close to the edge as possible, balancing his cane against the bench behind him. The cool air felt good after the stifling weather indoors, but the bitter cold against his backside would quickly become numbing. 

"Yes, fine, John," Sherlock replied shortly. "Just tired of all the stupid people. So much idiocy and vanity and obliviousness in one place could cause an explosion, you know. The candle flames would set it off like black powder." 

John patted Sherlock's hand. 

"Can't escape them for one minute. Just look at them, the nosy cows." 

John turned his head to where Sherlock was glaring. At least twenty more people had come out onto the balcony in the few minutes he and Sherlock had been out there. 

"Perhaps a dance just ended and they've come out to cool down." 

"No, second movement. They're watching us." 

John listened to the music still audible from the glowing ballroom. He had to agree; it didn't sound like the piece had just started, nor were the musicians taking a break. He and Sherlock were sitting near several path lights. If John could see the expression on Sherlock's face so clearly, surely so could anyone on the balcony. 

"Why would they be watching us? We're not doing anything interesting." 

"Oh, yes, John, brilliant!" 

John would never have guessed what would come after that exclamation. Sherlock shifted, pressing his knee against John's, put both hands on his shoulders, and pressed their lips together. 

It was chaste, at first, but John pulled back from Sherlock's enthusiastic embrace just enough to soften the kiss, make it more tender. John didn't know what impulse overtook Sherlock, but he wasn't going to let this chance go to waste. He moved one hand to Sherlock's cheek, stroking the high cheekbones with his fingertips, and his other hand to Sherlock's knee where it pressed against his own. 

Sherlock's lips were soft and full with a sharply peaked Cupid's bow. John followed the well-defined line with his lips. A shiver went through him as he thought about tracing that line with his tongue. He couldn't believe Sherlock had initiated kissing; John had felt so sure that Sherlock had no interest in him that way. Their kiss at the magistrate's office had been somewhat hesitant on Sherlock's part, and quick. 

But Sherlock, John realized after a few seconds, wasn't actively participating in this kiss. He was leaning forward, keeping the pressure consistent, adjusting himself to John's preferences, but he wasn't really kissing back, not exactly. John pulled back slightly, his eyes straining to see Sherlock's eyes in the flickering light. 

"Sherlock, I'm sorry… did you... have you... have you never been kissed before? Or am I doing something you don't like?" John made sure to keep his voice very low and not make any sudden movement of withdrawal. If the people on the balcony could see, they could possibly overhear, and this was _private_ , dammit, no matter how public. 

"It's nothing like that, John," Sherlock murmured back softly, though that was not really an answer to the question. "I think we've given them enough of a show so that we might make our excuses and depart for home." Sherlock gently moved away, his hands dropping from John's shoulders. 

_A show_. John turned away from Sherlock, facing the garden so his face couldn't be seen by the multitudes of curious guests not-so-subtly sashaying past through the glow from the bright windows behind him. He focused out into the darkness until Sherlock disappeared from the corner of his eye. 

"I thought you didn't care what people thought." 

"I don't _care_ , John, but sometimes it's convenient to have them believe one thing or another." 

Sherlock seemed content to let it go at that, but the conversation kept going in John's head. He turned it around several ways, but none of them ended well. 

When Sherlock plucked at his elbow again and said, "Come, John," he dutifully followed his heartless husband into the cackle of hyenas inside.


	35. Chapter 35

Lord Sherrinford met John and Sherlock in the foyer as they waited for their overcoats. 

"Pardon us, Captain Watson. I must have a final word with my brother before he departs." 

Lord Sherrinford didn't wait for John's brief nod before unlocking the study door and ushering Sherlock into the empty room. He made sure the door was shut completely behind him before speaking. 

"Congratulations, brother, on that lovely display on the lawn. Lady Adler almost believed it, for a brief second, just long enough for her laugh to stutter. She handled it quite smoothly, though, pretending she was entranced by the beauty of such a loving moment." 

"Did Victor believe it? That will be the true test." 

"What do you mean, Victor?" 

"Do not tell me you neglected to invite him, Mycroft." As annoyed as Sherlock was at Victor's unexpected presence, he did enjoy knowing something his brother did not. 

"I most certainly did not invite that man, I promise you." Lord Sherrinford's voice was edged with the pointiest icicles. 

"He was here. Gone now, most likely." 

"Did you invite him?" 

Sherlock glared at his brother. "No, of course not." 

"He must have accompanied someone else. I shall endeavor, dear brother, to find out whom." 

"Don’t bother. He's already made his trouble." 

Sherlock didn't put it above his brother to allow Victor into his home for the sole purpose of proving to the provocateur that Sherlock was now a married man and out of his reach. Sherlock just wasn't sure if Mycroft understood that his marriage would mean nothing to the Victor he knew. Marriage vows meant little when it came to his pursuance of pleasure and discord. 

"What sort of trouble?" 

Sherlock didn't want to tell him, but Mycroft was only helpful if he had full knowledge. Surprising him only led to further annoyance. 

"I had gone up to my old room; he was there. When I descended the staircase, he followed." 

"Making it clear what you two were doing in an upstairs bedroom, no doubt. Sherlock, how could you be so stupid?" 

"I'm not going to have this argument for the umpteenth time. My acquaintance with Victor is over. It's been over for a year. It is not a mistake I wish to repeat." 

"See that you don't." 

"Draconian, egotistical, dictatorial…" Sherlock drained his extensive vocabulary onto his brother as he pulled open the door and rejoined his new husband in the foyer. 

Lord Sherrinford moved to shake his brother-in-law's hand. 

"Have you said goodbye to Sir Harold, Captain Watson? I understand he leaves for Essex in the morning." 

"I've no wish to, Lord Sherrinford," John answered shortly. "Are you ready, Sherlock?" 

"More than," answered his husband with a dramatic sigh. 

Lord Sherrinford's coach was waiting at the foot of the front steps to transport them to their new home on Baker Street. Neither of them spoke, and John only sat on the seat beside Sherlock so he wouldn't have to face that probing glare directly. 

Time, he told himself, they both needed time to figure out where their place in each other's life would be. Nothing had to be set in stone tonight. John could be patient. Just because John so desperately wanted to kiss Sherlock and Sherlock came away from the activity so dispassionate and unaffected didn't mean that was the end. And even if it was, John could live his own life. Sherlock was right about one thing: this marriage was freedom for them both. 

But he didn't have to think about this now. He certainly didn't want to talk about this now and was very glad for the other man's silence. 

The ride to Baker Street was surprisingly quick, not being too terribly far from Lord Sherrinford's posh Mayfair address. John thought he might have walked farther to Bow Street, but he'd have to check a map. Also they were situated very near the bit of land the Regent had commissioned architect John Nash to develop. It would be a lovely place to walk, if they allowed in the public. 

The coach pulled up in front of a narrow townhouse in a row of similar places, number 221 next to the door. Lamps glowed in two of the upstairs windows; their few servants had been sent ahead by Lord Sherrinford to prepare the place for habitation and, of course, Sherlock had already taken up residence. One of the young, efficient footmen from the Sherrinford House opened the door a few moments after the clatter of hooves stopped in front of the house, welcoming the new occupants as they descended from the coach. 

"Welcome home, Captain Watson," a womanly voice greeted as John stepped inside the door. The young man closed the door behind him and instantly moved to take John's coat. 

"What about me, Mrs. Hudson. Am I not welcome?" Sherlock was grinning at the woman who'd appeared. She was older, but still spry. "Of course you are!" She patted him on the shoulder with a good amount of familiarity. Sherlock bussed her cheek, stripping off his greatcoat and tossing it to the footman, who caught it easily as if he expected the heavy wool to fly into his arms at any second. 

"Goodness, let me look at the both of you." 

Sherlock obediently descended the two steps he'd already climbed and stood next to John. 

"Married, I just can't believe it!" 

"It must have been inevitable, Mrs. Hudson, for you know I do not believe in miracles." Sherlock's tone was friendly and impish. John had never seen him behave like this with anyone else in their short acquaintance. 

"John, this is Mrs. Hudson. She will be our housekeeper. Matthews there is footman, valet, butler, whatever-else-you-may-require." The young man bowed politely to John, arms now relieved of coats. "Mycroft provided you with a maid, too, did he not, Mrs. Hudson?" "Yes, yes, I sent her home for the night ages ago. She'll be around in the morning. Now, you should show your Captain Watson around the house. I could send a nice pot of tea upstairs for you, if you wish?" 

"That would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." The woman and their footman disappeared towards the back of the house. 

"A quick tour, then, John?" 

"Certainly." 

Sherlock was off and practically running. 

"First floor sitting room, public. I see Lestrade and clients in here." He took a few steps past the staircase. "Kitchen," he gestured vaguely in the direction Mrs. Hudson had disappeared. "Her rooms are tucked behind there. This," Sherlock said with a grand gesture of flinging open the door just under the staircase, "is my laboratory!" 

John caught up to him and peered inside the door. The room was spacious, or would have been if it was not piled with books, papers, and boxes of glass lab equipment. The walls were lined with tables and there were two large windows that opened to the narrow space between the houses. They were clearly more for ventilation than any sort of light or view. 

"I have not had time to set up all my experiments. I do not allow Mrs. Hudson or the maid in here, and no one at all unattended. They might disturb something fragile or important. You may come in here, if you wish, but I don't recommend touching anything." 

This was clearly a large compliment to John, since he was apparently trusted not to louse anything up. 

"Our main living area is upstairs." 

Sherlock took the lamp from the table near the door and closed up his lab. His long legs took the stairs two at a time; John followed more carefully. It had been a long day and his legs were getting tired. 

The room at the first landing was a rather nice sitting room with windows facing the garden at the back of the house. The view was slightly desolate this time of year, but no doubt Sherlock would instruct the growth of vibrantly colored poisonous plants in spring. The thought made John smile just a little, remembering the day they met. Sherlock was a force of nature, he was. 

The sitting room was mostly set up, though there were boxes of books and paperwork. 

"I wish to organize my books myself, or I shall never find anything. I can't imagine what Matthews, or Heaven forbid, the maid thinks is proper cataloguing." 

There was a large desk near the window, plenty of shelves on the wall near the fireplace, comfortable-looking leather chairs and a long sofa. John glanced around. 

"I think this will be quite nice, Sherlock." 

"You're pleased? Excellent. Moving everything again would be quite tedious. Come along." 

Sherlock disappeared through a door. 

"This is your bedroom," he announced when John had followed. "I've taken the second bedroom upstairs. I thought that with your leg, the fewer stairs at the beginning and end of the day, the better. However, if my habits of wandering around at all hours of the night begin to annoy you, we can switch." 

John wasn't quite sure what to say. "I'm sure it will be fine," he finally managed, but Sherlock wasn't particularly listening to him. 

"I see you're tired, John. It's been a long day. Be grateful that newlyweds are expected to leave early." Sherlock grinned impishly. "Mycroft will be kept awake by the festivities until nearly dawn. Get some rest. Matthews will bring up the tea tray for you, a nice, soothing peppermint I imagine, and you can settle in." 

Sherlock was nearly out the door when John spoke. 

"When did you last sleep, Sherlock?" 

"What day is it?" he replied with a distracted flutter of his fingers. "Too much to do, John! I ought to be able to finish the books in the sitting room at the very least, see what Mycroft has kept behind that I'll have to steal next time he makes me visit." 

Sherlock swept the door shut behind him, not hearing John's belated, "Good night." 

John had indeed settled in a half hour later, warm tea in his stomach, a glowing fire in his fireplace. He could hear Sherlock puttering around in the sitting room next door, but the sounds were homey and comforting. He would much rather that Sherlock, well, wanted to be in this large, soft bed with him, but he didn’t feel nearly as lonely as he thought he might. He felt a lot of possibility opening in front of him, and so while he was still a bit unsettled, he wasn't unhappy.


	36. Chapter 36

With John tucked away for the night, Sherlock went up to his room and adjusted his clothing to his comfort. The dreadful neck cloth flew towards the fireplace and only the lack of aerodynamics inherent in a wadded strip of linen saved it from being ash. The close-fitting jacket and waistcoat were next, replaced with a dark blue silk banyan which he let drape around him rather than tying it closed. He slipped his feet out of his dress shoes and into a much more comfortable pair for around the house. 

When he went past John's door downstairs, he could hear the man inside readying for bed, limping across the room, crawling between the rustling sheets and sighing as he settled in. Light still glowed from underneath the door, brightly, as if a lamp had remained lit just beside the door. Logic would indicate that the light would remain by the bedside so that John could extinguish it without walking across the room in the dark. _Conclusions: he meant it to remain lit; childish habit, unlikely; unfamiliar bed, likely; consistently woken by unpleasant dreams, possibly_. 

Sherlock continued on into the sitting room and glanced around at the crates of books stacked around. He frowned. Mycroft had deliberately instructed that the books be packed away in random order, instead of taking them off the shelves in the proper order so they could be more easily reshelved. They appeared to be sorted due to size, height and then width. It would take the rest of the night to reorganize them. 

Sherlock emptied the first few boxes out onto the floor, made a few calculations in his head of the length of the available shelving, and began placing books where they would belong. He drank the tea Matthews had left for him, though after the first two mouthfuls, it had gone cold. He drank it anyway, in one long gulp. It sloshed a bit uncomfortably in his belly for a few minutes, but the sensation was lost as Sherlock set his mind to the completion of the task before him. 

By the time the fire had died down due to lack of attendance and the room began to chill, Sherlock had discovered that Mycroft had kept the second volume of his favorite treatise on medicinal herbs, his copy of Albini's Tabulae Sceleti et Musculorum Corporis Humani and, most grievously, both volumes of Charles Johnson's A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates. _The villain_. All could be replaced, true, but the first two were already full of his notes and corrections and repeating himself on a new text would be tedious. 

Sherlock was distracted from his indignation by a noise from John's room, part exclamation, part groan. 

Nightmares, then. He tilted his head towards the sound, listening closely. There was no sound for several minutes, but then the covers rustled and the bed creaked. Feet hit the floor. Floorboards creaked as footsteps padded slowly back and forth just the length of the bed as if John was using it for support. 

Sherlock glanced at the face of the clock on the mantle, without moving from his kneeling position by the bookshelves. Nearly half three and John was pacing clumsily in his room. Sherlock continued to listen as John, for nearly half an hour, paced, never once sitting, never once climbing back into bed. 

Sherlock could hear him so clearly, he may have been sitting in the room watching. That was one of the things Sherlock loved about the dark hours: so few other distractions. People were mostly asleep and the world was as close to still as it ever got. The flow of information slowed to a crawl and Sherlock's brain, well, it never rested or he would be dangerously bored, but it could process only the information Sherlock himself introduced. 

When the ticking clock neared four, Sherlock heard John sigh and climb back into his bed. After a few minutes, Sherlock stood, knees hardly stiff thanks to Mummy and her ridiculous insistence on hours of kneeling prayer when he was bad. He wrapped his banyan tighter around his waist and installed himself on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson had kindly left a knit blanket draped over the back, so he curled up with that, too. 

Sleepless John filled Sherlock's mind. He'd not come out of his room to see if Sherlock was still awake, doubtless assuming he wasn't. He'd barely left the side of the bed, until the end when he'd stirred the dampened fire a little and added a little coal. His step had not been steady or regular as he shuffled about. Aside from that first noise upon waking, though, John hadn't made another sound that Sherlock could hear. Sherlock's deduction turned from nightmare to pain, and pain regular enough that John was used to it, that he bore it without complaint. 

That thought made Sherlock's nerves tingle in odd places, above his upper palate, in his throat. He swallowed a few times and the feeling dissipated. _Odd._ Sherlock closed his eyes and listened more intently. He couldn't hear John breathing beyond the wall separating them and above the flames in the fireplace. John didn't snore and if he made any soft snuffling noises when he slept, they weren't loud enough to detect from here. 

Still, Sherlock was content with the lack of further shuffling that John had fallen back asleep, and he let himself follow suit.


	37. Chapter 37

John woke far too early for his liking, but his body reacted to the light streaming in around the edges of the heavy curtains on his window. He stayed abed for a quarter of an hour more, trying to fall back asleep, but even as tired as he was, his brain wasn't having it. He finally got up and used the bell pull. By the time he'd used the chamber pot and pulled on the thick damask dressing robe draped across the foot of his bed, Matthews was knocking lightly at his door. 

John hobbled over to the chair by the fireplace and Matthews moved a small table to his side, laying tea out for him. There were plenty of warm scones as well, with jam and cream. 

"Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?" Matthews seemed more than efficient; in just a few moments he had built up the fire, gathered up the clothing John had worn yesterday, carried away John's boots for polishing, and laid a lap rug over John's legs as he warmed himself in his chair by the hearth. 

"No, I think I'm perfectly situated for a while, thank you." John would be quite comfortable spending a good portion of his morning exactly where he sat. His leg had cramped up in the middle of the night, every muscle from hip to ankle twitching in its turn. It wouldn't be quite so unbearable if the muscles in his calf wouldn't spasm at the same time as the ones on the front of his ankle. He couldn't stretch the one without painfully indulging the other. The spasms had taken their toll, as well; his leg still ached from the strain of the contracting muscle, almost as if the muscle had torn itself anew. 

"Very well, sir. Ring when you wish to dress." 

Matthews left the room and Sherlock burst in only a few seconds later. 

"When will you be ready to go to the shops, John?" 

Sherlock was fully dressed, splendid in a midnight blue velvet jacket with a powder blue waistcoat peeking from the cutaway. The dark color accented the darkness of his hair and the brightness of his eyes. He settled into the chair opposite John's and stretched out his long legs in their buff breeches and tall boots. 

"Are we going to the shops?" John replied more calmly than he felt, his quiet morning invaded by a restless Sherlock. "Have you eaten?" 

"I ate yesterday after the wedding." 

"That's a no, then." John split a scone and spread it liberally with the jam and clouted cream and held out the small plate to Sherlock. "There's a second cup on the tray; would you like tea as well?" 

Sherlock took the plate with a belabored sigh, but finished every crumb. He took the tea with less complaint, ordering three sugars. 

"Did you sleep?" 

"A little, on the sofa, after I'd finished with my books. Mycroft stole my favorite one; I'll have to send him a bill for a dozen others." 

"So the bookshop, then." Sherlock nodded in agreement. 

"I received a notice from Harris' that an idiot of whom I've made the unfortunate acquaintance has published his thoughts on the sciences. I plan to correct the text and return it to him." 

Oh, so many questions. John almost laughed. 

"But what if he's written something correct?" 

"Unlikely," Sherlock scoffed. "His mentor is a man named Fortager who still fervently believes in balancing the bodily humours." 

"That's still a respected viewpoint, Sherlock," John said, just to see what Sherlock might say. 

"It's an idea almost two thousand years old, John! How can we, with all the advances in the recent age, believe in a theory propagated by such scientifically backward generations?" 

"The ancient Greeks were hardly backward, Sherlock." 

Sherlock continued as if John hadn't said a word, and certainly didn't notice the tilting up of the corner of John's mouth. 

"I could spend my lifetime disproving such prattle and nonsense, but it would be futile. One would think that a simple microscope and cadaver would be enough to teach these fools differently, but they only allow evidence in front of their eyes that confirm their prejudices. It's the worst kind of scientific theory!" 

It was then Sherlock apparently noticed John's smile, for he ceased his haughty lecture. 

"You trained as a physician, yet you don't believe in humoralism either?" 

"I'm of a slightly more modern viewpoint, yes, and I think there is a lot we don't yet know about the human body. Keeping strictly to old ideas is limiting to progress." 

"You were just having me on, then?" 

John tried to hide his smile behind his teacup. "It is fairly easy to wind you up, apparently." 

"John!" But then Sherlock's stern face broke into a grin. They chuckled together a moment. 

"I must say I'm quite relieved, John. At least we won't have to have an awkward conversation about bloodletting if I ever grow ill." 

"No, I've seen the results of losing too much blood. It didn't improve the health of anyone on the battlefield." John hadn't meant for his statement to come out so seriously, but Sherlock reacted as such. 

"No, I imagine it didn't." 

There was a moment of grim silence before John spoke again. 

"So what else are we shopping for?" 

"Glassware for an experiment. I've a special item on order at Edgers and Sons." 

"I suppose I ought to hurry and dress, then, so advancements in scientific experimentation by the great Sherlock Holmes are not further delayed."


	38. Chapter 38

Sherlock didn't leave the room as John dressed, so he dragged his lap robe with him before flicking it onto the bed. His dressing gown was long enough to nearly touch the floor, and as long as he wasn't walking towards Sherlock, it hid the scarring on his leg well enough. John rang the bell for Matthews, who might have been waiting on the other side of the door with the basin of warm water for as quickly as he appeared. 

John stepped behind the screen in the corner, washed, and only reappeared when he had the majority of his clothing about his person. John's new clothing had been installed in his new home, but he looked at the knit sweaters from Mrs. Phillips sitting in a drawer next to his worn buckskins with longing. He felt a bit like he was wearing a stranger's clothes. Matthews helped with the buttons and ties and coat, straightening him up quite tidily. In no time at all, he was ready to hobble along the market street after his husband. He had to admit that, with walking sticks being in fashion, he looked quite dapper. If he leaned a little more heavily on it than other gentlemen, well, no one would say anything. 

The bookshop was within walking distance, and John felt healthier with the morning sun on his face and the warmth of a good walk in his legs. In the places where the cobbles were rougher, Sherlock took John's hand and wrapped it around his elbow for balance. 

"Pick out anything you like, John," Sherlock directed as they stepped into a warm bookshop that smelled of leather and paper and the tangy scent of ink. 

"Oh, I'm sure I can make do with the books in your library, Sherlock. There are bound to be dozens I've never read." 

Sherlock sighed. 

"I will inform you if the books you pick out are already in my library. We've no need for frugality on Mycroft's tab. Go. Buy something." Sherlock fell into conversation with the shop owner, someone apparently well-acquainted with Sherlock's preferences. John looked about himself in a bit of awe. There were quite a few books around when he was growing up, but they weren't really intended for reading. They arrived by the crate and recently disappeared the same way. He had his medical texts, certainly, but much of what he had learned was by apprenticeship and practice. 

Now, faced with such choice, he grappled with indecision. What did he want? He moved to the nearest shelf, eyes flicking over the gilding on the spines. He could have anything. John walked from section to section, reading labels and pulling random books off the shelves. He felt like the whole world was crammed into this tiny shop in London and he was welcome to venture anywhere. 

In the end, he selected two travelogues, one about Egypt and one about the West Indies. He might be able to ask Petrina Holmes how accurate it was to her experiences if she visited. When he carried them up to the counter, Sherlock merely glanced at him and said, "Only two?" and added them to his growing pile. 

Sherlock signed his name to the bill and gave the direction of Lord Sherrinford while smirking. The shop owner didn't seem surprised in the least; of course, Sherlock had been charging to his brother's accounts all his life. Sherlock made further instruction for delivery of the books to Baker Street before taking John's arm and strolling back into the street. 

"Is there anything else you have need of while we're out, John?" 

"I can't think of anything I need. Everything seems to have been taken care of for me." 

"Yes, well, that's Mycroft at his most overbearing. He'll make all the arrangements for every breath you take, if you let him." 

They stopped at Edgers and Sons, which turned out to be a small forge. The air inside smelled hot and smoky. Workers spun long tubes with glowing bubbles of molten glass on the ends, handling them as easily as if they were children's toys. To the side of the glassworks was a glittering shop full of their wares. The front room held all the decorative items, pleasing to the eye and glinting at the passersby. Sherlock walked through this without looking and entered a back room more practically stocked with flasks and bottles and jars. 

"Mr. Holmes, good day!" greeted one of the young men bustling about this second room. "Father just finished your project yesterday. It's quite a beauty." 

"Excellent. Let's have a look, shall we?" 

John followed with curiosity as the young shopkeeper led them down a hallway and into the forge proper. At the end was a table with a sizable glass tank perched on top. Five large panes of glass were edged with metal framing. A lid of sorts fastened on with hinges and a locking mechanism. The lid was partially solid, partially fine mesh webbing. 

"It's completely secure?" Sherlock continued to examine the finished product minutely. 

"Utterly." 

"What's it for? A pet?" 

"Of a sort. We're picking that up later." 

"And you're not going to tell me?" 

A smile played on Sherlock's lips as he straightened up. "No, it's a surprise. Pack it up and send it to 221 Baker Street, Edgers." 

"Of course Mr. Holmes. This very afternoon." 

John kept his curiosity to himself as much as he was able. 

"Where to next, Sherlock?" 

"Lestrade has promised we could speak to some of the families of his missing persons." 

"He isn't going to have them try to identify the body parts, is he?" John followed Sherlock out onto the street where he hailed a hack in record time. 

"To Bow Street," he directed, climbing inside. "No, John. It is unlikely that the families would be able to recognize a foot or hand separate from the rest of the body, especially after preservation methods. Most people aren't terribly observant anyway, and there were no particularly distinguishing marks on any of them. Even if we do discover the rest of the body, it may be so decomposed that the face will be unrecognizable." 

"So what can they tell us that isn't in the files?" 

"People tell you so much if you only know how to observe, John. One can spot lies, guilt, and deception so easily. Eyes might flicker to a spot where something is hidden. Incongruous hairs on a shoulder may signal an affair; ones on an ankle may indicate a pet." 

"And what, pray tell, will signal that these people know anything about the deaths of their loved ones?" 

"I have no wish to speculate. That is invariably harmful to the process. We shall have to wait and see." 

At Bow Street, Lestrade climbed into the hack and directed the driver to the first address on his list. John greeted a haggard-looking Lestrade with a genial, "Good morning," but Sherlock looked at his person and greeted him with something much more blunt. 

"I don't know why you tolerate her indiscretions, Lestrade. She can't possibly believe you won't find out; in fact, I suspect she does this deliberately to hurt you." 

"Do me a favor, Holmes, and stay out of my relationship with my wife." 

"You should make her leave…" 

"Sherlock, hush." Sherlock, surprised at John's tone, did just that. Lestrade looked at the quiet man sitting across from himself with a curious appreciation. Then, as quickly as he was able, he began to lay out the facts surrounding their first missing person. 

"Dorothy Mae Hopkins, dressmaker. Didn't show up for work Monday morning four weeks ago. Her sister is the family member who came to Bow Street; she's married to a solicitor for Bleeker and Avery. Miss Hopkins had spent Sunday with her sister, going to church, staying for tea before being taken home by her sister's carriage in the evening. Sometime between eight that evening and nine the next morning, she disappeared." 

"Can we see her rooms?" 

"Doubtful. They've already been let. But we can speak to her landlady, if you wish." 

"That will have to do, but it's detrimental to the case, Lestrade," Sherlock pouted. "We'll have to rely on the family and landlady to remember pertinent details as they cleared the room. It'll be nearly useless." Sherlock sank into his own head and was silent for the rest of the journey. 

The hack pulled up to a modest house, the sister's, and they disembarked. 

Lestrade introduced Sherlock and John to Mrs. Evans, a subdued young woman in a gray dress and only slightly darker shawl. 

"Have you come to tell me my sister is dead, then, Mr. Lestrade?" she asked once she'd shut the door behind the three gentlemen. 

"I'm afraid we have no concrete proof of that at this time, Mrs. Evans. I'm sorry," Lestrade said. 

"It is likely, though, after four weeks with no indication of her having gone somewhere deliberately and no word. But I can see you realize that; you've donned half-mourning already, as if in preparation for bad news." 

"Holmes!" Lestrade was glaring at Sherlock again as if that was all he was going to do today. 

"I haven't said anything untoward, have I, John?" Sherlock looked to his husband. John's face wasn't nearly as grim as Lestrade's. 

"A bit more gentleness and tact would be appropriate, Sherlock," John replied, patting his husband's arm, "but I don't believe Mrs. Evans is offended." 

"Please, come in and sit, sirs. I'll fetch a pot of tea." 

They made themselves comfortable as Mrs. Evans left the room, John and Sherlock perching on a small sofa and Lestrade on a rather too-soft chair. 

"John, I might take a moment to tell you that I do feel that tact is pointless. Would it not be more of a relief for Mrs. Evans to have concrete evidence that her sister is dead than to live with false hope?" 

"As we do not have a body for Mrs. Evans to bury, that argument is premature, Sherlock. There is no reason to press her to feel more sadness than she already does." 

Sherlock seemed to take this under advisement. 

"Very well, John, though you may have to remind me, as I will likely misstep again." 

John flashed a smile at Sherlock and it wasn't the same sympathetic smile he gave Mrs. Evans when she handed him a cup of tea. When they were all politely served, Mrs. Evans sat and patiently awaited the purpose of their visit. 

"Mr. Holmes would like to ask you some questions about the movements of your sister prior to her disappearance and also about the state of her rooms on Grace Street when you removed her things." 

"Yes, of course." 

Lestrade and the Watson-Holmes found Mrs. Evans more than gracious. Sherlock was thrilled that she wasn't overwrought with emotion, unlike most women, but her manner also didn’t indicate a complicit sort of guilt, either. She was sensible, almost intelligent, something Sherlock thought was a rare find. 

However, her information was limited. She had not seen her sister for long after supper and only realized she was missing the very next day because she had stopped by the shop where her sister worked to look at a bolt of fabric she'd mentioned. When she was not there, she quickly proceeded to Grace Street in case her sister was ill. She wasn't there and hadn't been seen since coming in the night before. 

"Did the landlady let you into your sister's room that day?" 

"Yes. There was no response to my knocking and I was worried she might be very ill and unable to answer. The key was not in the lock or on the table near the door where she kept it and her gloves and reticule." 

"Were her other belongings on that table?" 

"No, just three of her handkerchiefs, neatly folded, a small dish where she kept a couple of mint drops, and a hatpin." 

"Did she normally keep her hatpin there? Did she only have one?" 

"She had several; I gave her a few as gifts. She usually kept them in a hat pin cushion on her bureau." 

"Did you notice any belongings missing? Were all the hat pins found, was she wearing a bonnet when she disappeared? Was she wearing her work dress, or was her Sunday dress missing from her belongings?" 

"The dress she wore Sunday was hanging up. All her other things were there. Just her work dress was missing and the few things she would take with her every day." 

Sherlock continued to ask questions about every detail Mrs. Evans could remember. When he'd finished, he told Lestrade that they could reasonably presume that she had made it home the night before, slept, and likely left for work in the morning. That would narrow down the time for her disappearance to a couple hours of the morning, sometime between when she would normally leave the house and when she was to arrive at work. 

Sherlock's questions delved into Miss Hopkins' personal life, which Mrs. Evans answered guilelessly. She'd never mentioned a suitor or particularly problematic customer. There were no gifts of unknown origin – Sherlock even asked Mrs. Evans to produce the woman's jewelry box and she named the provenance of the few pieces easily. 

Their reception at Miss Hopkins' last place of residence was significantly less helpful. 

"I don't know what you think, asking me all these questions. I stay out of the lives of my tenants!" 

"It would be significantly more profitable if you admitted to being the nosy, intrusive landlady you so obviously are," Sherlock had finally replied quite scornfully. "It would have also been more conducive to the investigation if you had waited to clean out the room until the end of the month, instead of telling her sister Miss Hopkins had only paid through the end of the week." 

The woman's face burned, clearly caught out. 

"I have a living to make. I can't leave rooms empty when the tenant is clearly dead and gone." 

"And how can you be so sure?" Sherlock stood, his tall form quite imposing when leaned over the indignant woman. "Did you observe a threat to her person, perhaps her abductor, and refuse to say anything all this time?" 

"No, of course not." But she seemed much more intimidated now than she had. 

"Then what are you hiding?" 

"Nothing." 

If a Sherlock-level glare wasn't going to make the woman spill, nothing would. John and Mr. Lestrade collected Sherlock and ushered him out the door. He was scowling, but strode off in the direction of the shop where Miss Hopkins worked, taking the most likely route and throwing his eagle eye in every direction as he went. 

John and Mr. Lestrade followed, their pace leisurely because Sherlock stopped often to examine this or that, or speak to someone on his way. 

"Would that we could have him on every case in London," Lestrade mused. "The city would be a much safer place if every potential criminal knew he'd be caught out within hours of his crime by the likes of Sherlock Holmes." 

"Is that why you work with him? To ensure justice?" 

"That is a perk, yes, but I do get paid by how many criminals I bring in, how many crimes I solve. Mr. Holmes will make me a rich man by the time I retire. No one else at Bow Street is smart enough to realize that." 

"Quite shrewd, Lestrade, I must admit." 

The walk from the boarding house to the shop took nearly an hour at their snail's pace. It might take Miss Hopkins a quarter hour at most if motivated. Once at the shop, Sherlock asked a few questions of the proprietor about the daily habits of Miss Hopkins and left looking thoughtful. 

"Lestrade, if you don't mind, I have an appointment to keep. We'll work on the next victim on your list tomorrow." 

"Really?" Lestrade gaped, unable to believe that Sherlock was going to abandon an investigation mid-afternoon. John was somewhat astonished, too. Of course, they had been shopping in the morning with little mention of the case. 

"A bite to eat, John?" 

John agreed because they had not paused in their day and he'd been ignoring his stomach for an hour. A cup of tea and a couple small biscuits at Mrs. Evans' home earlier did little to satisfy. 

Sherlock found them a cozy little dining room with a spot near the window facing the street. He declined to order any food, but when John's meal came, he did steal a slice of bread and butter from his plate. 

"So what do you think about Miss Hopkins?" 

"I think the abductor would have had to be very clever to carry someone off without alerting anyone, especially on a busy street in the morning. She would have had to appear to go willingly." 

"Perhaps a friend, or someone she thought of as a friend." 

"Perhaps." Sherlock peered out the window, thinking, always thinking. "I wish we could have seen her rooms intact. I might have been able to see the quality of her mail and whether she burned papers in her fireplace." 

"A secret affair?" 

Sherlock sighed. "Useless speculation. Are you quite finished? I have someone I wish for you to meet." 

John might have wished for a few more minutes to let his meal settle, and to rest from their day-long excursion, but he was plenty used to eating in a rush from the army so he rose without complaint. Sherlock left a generous coin on the table for the meal and tucked John inside another hack. The address he gave the driver was across the Thames in Lambeth.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be science! No dogs were harmed in the making of this chapter. I've also done far too much research, but the science of the day is both morbid and fascinating. :)

The address in Lambeth was about three times the size of their home on Baker Street, but less well-maintained. The exterior was chipping and the first of the stone steps wobbled when John prodded it with his cane. It wasn't entirely dilapidated, for the windows shone and the walk was swept, just somewhat neglected. 

"I feel I must warn you, John. The Professor is one of the few men in existence whose genius nearly matches my own. His genius borders on madness." Sherlock mounted the front steps two at a time and used the knocker. 

"So, if you are the more intelligent, does that make you mad?" John says this with a teasing grin, surprising Sherlock into a wide smile. 

"Some seem to think so." Sherlock winked and John felt a little guilty for thinking him mad on the morning of their wedding. Was that only yesterday? Granted, he had just cause, but Sherlock was a vivid, brilliant man and shouldn't need to explain his reasons for the things he did. 

The door opened on an ancient man, skeletal and hunched over with a sunken chest. 

"Is he at home, Marley?" Sherlock asked. 

"Yes, sir, tinkering away with his latest contraption." 

"Excellent. We'll find him in a good mood, then." 

"Very, sir." 

The elderly butler took their overcoats and left them to find their own way. Sherlock seemed to be a frequent enough visitor that he familiar with the butler and had the run of the household. 

"What is that humming, Sherlock?" John asked as soon as they were alone in the foyer. Sherlock turned as he opened a door to their left, eyes alight. 

"That is bound to be his latest machine. This should be exciting! Come along, John." 

John entered the next room after his husband, but he was stopped by the utterly stunning clutter of the room. Large globes hung from the ceiling in what John surmised was a model of the solar system. Books and loose papers were stacked in piles three feet deep in corners despite an abundance of bookshelves. The shelving held other things, notably taxidermied animals John had never seen in his life and pickled punks, two headed pigs, six-legged cats and the like. Glass eyes stared out from the shelving as well, often on their own and not encased in any skull. 

Bones littered the place, too, but in a way that suggested something crawled up to the hearth and was allowed to die there. There was no smell beyond the typical coal smoke and dust and paper smell of a library, so John supposed that could not be true. 

Sherlock walked confidently through the mess as if he'd seen it all before and opened a door on the far side of the room. 

"He's what one might call a theoretical anatomist. Taught me everything I know about the subject. He was the only lecturer at university worth listening to, but of course they quietly tossed him out a few years ago." 

John didn't ask what for; he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. 

Sherlock disappeared through the door, leaving John to follow or not. John bravely threw himself into the next room, breath held in a mixture of dread and anticipation. 

"Good afternoon, Professor!" Sherlock called above the oppressive humming. It made the fine hairs along John's skin stand up and a strange pressure throbbed through the rest of him. 

"Holmes, lad, good to see you, good to see you! Give me a few minutes and I'll be right with you." 

John still couldn't see the man for he was hidden by a huge machine that took up the center of the room. It consisted of huge glass disks, spinning with a crank, brass globes, glass cylinders, and metal tubing. There was a definite chemical smell in this room, as well as the acrid scent of burnt hair. That smell was coming from the body of a dog on a nearby rolling table. 

John glanced at Sherlock, whose bright eyes were taking in every inch of the fabulous machine before them. He moved entirely around it, eyes calculating how it worked, how every part moved and would be taken apart. There was only one way to describe how Sherlock gazed at that mysterious apparatus: he was enraptured. And John was entranced by the keen look in his husband's eyes, until he reminded himself not to be. He cleared his throat. Back to the machine, then. 

"What is it?" 

"It's Martinus von Marum's electrostatic generator. Well, a replica, anyway," came the hidden voice again. This time the gentleman came around the tables that held the generator, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. He was thin, older, perhaps in his mid-fifties with thinning hair fading from brown to gray. There was nothing spectacular about his appearance other than his eyes. They were dark and quick and flicked about much like Sherlock's. "Who have we here, eh, Holmes?" 

"Husband," Sherlock replied, distracted, his head awfully close to the glass wheels at the center of the device. 

"Don't touch, Sherlock," the man reminded him. "Wait, did you say husband? Whatever happened with that Victor lad you used to come around with?" 

Sherlock's head popped up. He strode over to the two of them and placed one hand on John's shoulder. 

"Doctor Watson is a finer man than Victor Trevor could ever hope to be." 

This was the first time Sherlock had ever referred to John as anything other than John; it was also the first time since he'd joined the army that someone had referred to him as other than his rank. Captain outranked doctor, and like the gentry, the highest title preceded any others. John found he liked hearing Sherlock call him Doctor Watson. It almost distracted him from wondering about Victor Trevor. 

"John, this is James Moriarty." John extended his hand. 

"Please call me Professor. Everyone does." The Professor shook his hand, smiling widely. 

"Good to meet you, Professor. So tell me about this generator of yours? What is it for?" 

The Professor didn't take much prompting. He began a lengthy explanation of the machine, the gist of which was that it rubbed two pieces of wool or other materials together to create a spark of static electricity. The charge could be stored in a battery, the bank of Leyden jars. John tried to follow along through terms like dielectric and corona discharge, whose meanings he could guess at but his education on the theories of electrical charges was limited. 

"By any chance, are you relation to Sir William Watson, formerly of the Royal Society?" The Professor stopped in mid-ramble to ask, his speech patterns much like Sherlock's. 

"No, sir, I don't believe so." John was fascinated by the generator, but he felt overwhelmed. It was a relief to answer a simple question. "Shame. I would have loved to get my hands on anything he might have left cluttering up his attic when he passed. He improved the Leyden jar, you know." The Professor gestured to the several racks of metal-lined glass jars on a small table pushed up close to his generator. 

"But what does it have to do with the dog?" Sherlock finally interrupted, impatient in his curiosity. 

"Ah, yes, the dog, poor thing. His heart gave out this morning. I've been trying to test my theory that electrical stimulation to the heart might invigorate the muscle." 

"And did it?" The Professor had both John and Sherlock's attention at this. This might have potential to resuscitate the dead. 

"Oh, a few twitches, about as effective as salt on a frog leg. Pup was nearly stiff when I could manage the experiment. Have to try with a fresher body next time." 

Sherlock was immediately knuckle-deep in the dog's body, smoothing the fur away from the wires and the edge of the entry into the dog's chest. 

"I have hope for the theory that electrical pulses from the brain to the extremities control our movements." Galvani's nerve theory, that was something John was at least fleetingly familiar with. 

"Extraordinary. I can see why Sherlock thinks so highly of you, Professor." 

"What about reattached limbs?" Sherlock interrupted again. "Do you think that it would be possible to regain function in a limb completely severed?" 

"Were surgical techniques improved, I do believe so. However, the reattachment and regrowth of the proper nerves and veins would be quite delicate, far more so than we are capable of at this time." 

John and Sherlock exchanged a look. 

"Has there been any talk of such an experiment lately, Professor?" For if someone were to embark on such a thing, surely their first stop would be to the home of the theoretical anatomist James Moriarty. 

The man seemed to think about this for a second. 

"No one has discussed anything like that with me in quite a while. I suppose you could ask around at the Royal Society…" 

"Banished," Sherlock said, waving away the idea with a flung-out hand. John squashed a smile. 

The Professor was a fascinating conversationalist, if you could follow him. One could almost see the anatomy in front of them as he spoke, see the cuts and delicate surgeries he described, imagine it all being possible. Sherlock and John stayed well past tea and sunset listening and observing demonstrations of several contraptions around the vast laboratory. Sherlock continued to insert questions that might be relevant to his case without mentioning the case directly and John abetted his subtlety. 

"Sherlock, I believe we have distracted the good Professor from his work for too long," John finally said. The evening had progressed to nearly night. Lamps had been lit long ago and John was hungry. This did not seem like the sort of house where an invitation to dinner seemed forthcoming, especially if the Professor was anything like Sherlock in his refusal to adhere to proper mealtimes. 

Sherlock nodded sagely, as if realizing he'd spent too much time distracted from his case by the Professor. 

"Yes, I really must be getting John home. Professor, it's been enlightening, as always." 

"Do bring your young man back, Sherlock, anytime. We must encourage his scientific curiosity, eh?" 

"I've no doubt we'll be frequent visitors, Professor," John said with a smile. 

"Oh, Professor! I meant to tell you that Edgers will have delivered my terrarium today." 

"Excellent, dear boy. I'll start separating out a colony of dermestids for you in the morning." 

They had said their good-byes and left before John asked. The night was crisp for once, instead of damp and foggy. They began to walk towards the Westminster Bridge, thinking it more likely to find a hack near Lambeth Road or hovering near the House of Parliament on the other side. John tucked his hand around Sherlock's elbow, where it settled with a sense of familiarity. 

"So, dermestids?" 

"Use your Latin, John." But Sherlock hummed happily to himself. 

"Skin," John said thoughtfully. "Oh, Sherlock, skin eating insects? Tell me I'm wrong." 

"No, you're absolutely correct! I'll be able to clean my own specimens right at home. Mycroft would never let me bring them into the house." 

"What makes you think that I will?" 

Sherlock stopped dead and gave John such a pained, pathetic look that John almost laughed. Still, he kept a straight face. 

"Give me one good reason I would allow such a creature, much less a colony of them, in our fine house?" 

"They won't get out, I swear to you, John," Sherlock rushed to beg. "I must have them for my work! I can examine bone fractures in more detail without the flesh getting in the way. I'll keep them in my laboratory. You'll never even see them." 

"They'll eat the hairs on your violin bow if they get out. You know that right?" 

Sherlock's lips twisted in a grimace. 

"It is unlikely that the Professor will give me mere bow bugs when I need them for cleaning flesh from bone." 

John squeezed Sherlock's arm, pulling him into resuming their walk and not blocking the flow of traffic. 

"Very well, I agree to your condition – they will stay in your lab and I will not see them." 

"Technically, that's two conditions. Wait, yes?!" 

"Yes, fine, Sherlock, if they'll make you happy. You can consider it a wedding gift from me." 

"Oh, excellent, John." Sherlock began rubbing his hands together as if plotting something truly heinous and thrilling. 

"I have another condition, as well." 

"The deal has already been struck. You cannot add conditions after the fact." 

"Alright, then, answer me a question in the spirit of conversation, or as a wedding gift from you." 

"Hardly a traditional gift, the answer to a question, John. Go on, then." 

"Who is Victor Trevor?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir William Watson was a real person and he did improve the Leyden jar, an early sort of battery. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Electrostatic_generator_Teylers_Museum.jpg is a picture of the von Marum electrostatic generator in the Teyler's Museum in the Netherlands. http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-lady-and-her-monsters-roseanne-montillo/1112581256?ean=9780062025814 is a book I've been reading regarding the science of the day, which was ghoulish and grotesque and basically involved hooking pretty much any dead animal and sometimes executed convicts, if you could get them, (or sometimes the scientists themselves) up to batteries and making them twitch. How I LOVE this book. It's morbid and I'm a total nerd anyway.


	40. Chapter 40

Sherlock had anticipated the question, but had been too busy thinking about the case to devote himself to formulating a proper answer. He also hadn't expected a visit to the Professor to introduce the name into John's mind, though perhaps he should have. They walked past several buildings in silence before Sherlock could decide how to explain Victor Trevor. 

_Victor Trevor was a mistake._ No, definitely the wrong statement, no matter how true it was. 

_Victor Trevor was a friend._ Hardly something Sherlock would care to admit. He didn't pretend to truly understand friendship, but what he and Victor were to each other was not _friendly_. 

_Victor Trevor found Sherlock amusing, diverting, interesting_. Promising. Mostly true. 

"We met during a university lecture. Or, rather, just after I'd harangued a guest lecturer about his conclusions regarding the coagulation times of blood and stormed out of the theater. Victor popped out of the door a minute later and let loose a burst of laughter. 

"'Oh, that was the most infamous thing I've ever seen!' he said. 'It was glorious to see you put that imbecile in his place. However he was invited to lecture here, I do not know.' 

"I was almost tempted to laugh with the young man, but my mood was too ruined by the false promise of a useful lecture." 

"'Come, let us find a drink and while away the afternoon. I think I will quite like you, Mr. Holmes.'" 

Sherlock walked a few paces with a silent John before speaking again. 

"No one had ever thought they might like me before. My tutors despised me for I mostly proved to them they had little to teach me. I had no playmates as a child except Mycroft, and he was much older than I. I was fascinated with Victor, if perhaps in the most selfish way possible." 

"Your cousin Petrina seemed fond of you," John offered. 

"She grew up in Italy. We met perhaps only three times until our late teens." 

"That's too bad. I can only imagine the mischief the two of you would have caused." 

"We did manage to dye a cow orange once when I was eight." 

John's laughter rang out. 

"You'll have to elaborate on the intention of that experiment sometime, Sherlock." 

"Hmm, yes, well, it did have quite unexpected results." 

"Victor," John reminded gently when Sherlock's thoughts drifted into experimental directions. 

"Mycroft disapproved of Victor. He was an illegitimate son, though his studies were financed by his father, a German baron. Mycroft thought he was seeking a soft life, money. I argued that his father clearly supported his son and he wasn't a fortune hunter. Mycroft didn't threaten to cut me off, not at first, but he made it quite clear that he didn’t trust Victor. 

"We spent a lot of time together in the next few months. We shared many of the same intellectual interests, science, medicine, philosophy. We could speak for hours on these subjects. We visited the Professor together, helped with his experiments. 

"Victor invited me to spend a summer holiday at his father's home. We traveled up the Rhine to get there and were to spend nearly two months in company. Though Victor was illegitimate, his father socialized with him quite openly. The man had no children by his marriage to a quite eligible young heiress and had been considering naming Victor Trevor his heir. 

"During the holiday, a letter arrived for the Baron, one which upset him grievously, though he wouldn't say a word to anyone about its contents. That seemed to be an end to the matter, except for a few days later, the Baron fell ill. 

"Victor sat by his father's bedside, reading to him, comforting him, until one morning he very quietly passed away. I took my leave from the house of mourning, but not before being regaled with the tale of a spectacular turn of events. 

"The Baron had confessed all on his deathbed. He had been the father of Victor Trevor; that was no lie. The secret was that young Victor's mother had indeed been his wife, not the woman who so long claimed the position with face and fortune. Theirs had been a secret marriage between young lovers without thought to consequence. When the Baron was told by his father that he would have to marry a particular heiress or risk being disowned entirely, he held his tongue and obliged. The secret wife kept silent as well, but eventually died of heartbreak. 

"The letter the Baron had so recently received listed these details and more. In return for a hearty and regular sum, these events would remain secret until the Baron's demise. If the money faltered or the blackmailer was sought after, the shame of his bigamy would be spread far and wide. His lady wife would not visit him in prison, nor would the magistrates be inclined towards empathy by his defense. 

"Victor was named heir and returned to London a month after I did. He'd changed. I mean, he was always supercilious but now he was entitled to deference." 

The idea of finding a hackney to take them the rest of the way home had been lost and the pair of them set foot on Westminster Bridge. There were plenty of people crossing the Thames even at this time of night. Most hurried on their way; a few tipped their hats to the gentlemen passing arm-in-arm. A few people, mostly young couples, had even paused on the bridge to look upon the dark water, moonlight reflecting on the inky surface on this unusually clear night. 

One of the moon-gazers, though, was neither part of young romance, nor interested in celestial objects. Sherlock's gaze drew sharper focus around this man: tall, spare despite the width of the shoulders of his greatcoat; pale, the moonlight lighting up the edge of his jaw under the shadow of his hat-brim; coat, long, hiding something in its shadow as well, something tucked between the man's legs and a baluster at the edge of the bridge. 

"John, that man," Sherlock said lightly as they approached. From the way he was turned, Sherlock deduced he'd come from the Westminster side of the bridge. 

"Which man?" John began scouting the closest people to them methodically, a habit surely developed at war when any common man might be an enemy or a spy. His hand slipped into the deep pocket of his greatcoat to reassure himself that his gun was still there. 

"Top hat, greatcoat, shadow, stopped at the railing to our left. Suspicious and matches the description given me by…" 

Sherlock cut off as the man lifted a sack from the shadows near his feet and tossed it over the rail. 

"John! Stay here and fetch that sack!" 

Sherlock took off running the hundred feet left between him and the man. The man caught his advance from the corner of his eye and turned, shoving a blustering middle-aged banker out of the way before running back to the Westminster side of the bridge. 

"Sherlock!" John called, but if Sherlock heard him, his fleet step did not falter as it grew ever distant.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had this map of London in 1818 to begin with, (http://www.ph.ucla.edu/epi/snow/1818map/1818map_linkc.htm) I might have plotted locations a bit differently. However, despite this, I've managed to blather on accurately enough and tell myself for the remaining that I don't need to be doing quite this much research. :) Bless Regency romance authors for having such useful information in their blogs!

John hobbled quickly to the edge of the bridge to see if he could catch sight of where the sack had landed, though his first instinct was to run after Sherlock. It was hard to see in the dark, far past the illumination created by the bridge's fairly new gas lights, but he hadn't heard a great, plonking splash, and they were near the bank, so hopefully it had landed in the muddy shallows or on the Westminster Stairs. 

John looked again towards the direction Sherlock had run. The sack could be buggered. He set off at a slow gallop, moving as quickly as he could with his bad leg, cane hitting the ground every third or fourth step. He wasn't going to catch up with Sherlock's long legs unless the man captured or lost his quarry, but John didn't care. Sherlock and his mark had fled straight down the road a ways, past the New Palace Yard, but John saw no trace of them further on past St. Margaret or King Street. John tried to follow the trail of disgruntled pedestrians, pausing at corners to judge whether Sherlock had turned or gone straight ahead. He had not caught sight of them, not yet, but he delved with abandon further into the rabbit warren that was London's streets. Still, there came a point when John slowed to a walk, feeling hopelessly lost and unable to find either Sherlock or his direction home. His chest heaved with exertion; his pounding heart made him feel a bit light-headed. 

"Sherlock!" His bellow was met with catcalls and admonitions from the residents of the street. "Sherlock Holmes!" _Blast the watch and blast the hour._ John strode forward slowly, peering carefully down each narrow alleyway. Nothing, no one. 

When his breathing had caught up with him, he moved forward a little faster, sick with worry. John could only pray that his leg wouldn't give out on him, that he could keep going. _Just one more street. Sherlock surely must be around that next corner._ He tried to pay attention to the people on the street; they'd helped him track Sherlock this far. 

Most of the pedestrians at this time of night strode hurriedly towards their destination: servants on their way home or on some errand for their masters, couples to various entertainments or a late dinner, a few men to the pub or the home of their mistress. None showed signs of having just witnessed a chase or a fight. No fluster or calls for the watchman, no hurried steps away from the site of a scuffle. 

John was about to open his mouth and vainly call for Sherlock again when he felt a tug on his coat-sleeve. _Pickpocket_ was his first thought and he grabbed for the boy, though a decent pickpocket would perform a bump and run, not tug on his sleeve. He looked down to his left, finding a dirty urchin that reminded him far too much of the boy in the morgue yesterday. 

"Two streets up and one that way," the boy whispered, gesturing to his left. A second later, he'd disappeared among the people and the darkness. 

John didn't wonder for a second if the little boy's directions might lead him into a trap. He couldn't risk the possibility that Sherlock's little spies were truly everywhere. John threw himself into a run as much as he was able. He saw fewer people this direction, and finally a deserted street. Well, nearly. 

When John saw his husband flat on his back on the ground and the large man from the bridge bent above him, he was still too far away to do much more than shout, "Sherlock!" 

The villain lifted his head as John continued to lurch steadily towards them; his top hat had been lost along the way so his dark, rumpled hair was visible in the glow of the oil lamps that still lighted this part of the city. The blackguard gave John a teeth-baring grimace when he noticed him, but all John saw was Sherlock. Sherlock lying on the ground. Sherlock being held there by thick hands on his throat. Sherlock struggling, but weakly. 

John calculated the distance between them. _Too far, too far._ He kept running towards Sherlock, and pulled the gun from his pocket. At just over fifteen inches, it fit into one of his long, narrow greatcoat pockets and was mostly hidden by the heavy weight of the wool. It was a smoothbore flintlock, which meant accuracy at this distance could be erratic. _Closer._

John's father had purchased the Newland Pattern Pistol when he'd left for the war. Years of practice allowed John to load and fire it three times in a minute. He couldn't count on having more than one shot here. He had to make it count. And he had to avoid accidentally hitting his husband. 

John pulled back the half-cocked hammer, pausing in his run to aim. The whole world focused down to the barrel of his gun and his target. The pounding of his heart and the heaving of his lungs were of no consequence. He'd fired this shot a thousand times in the last few years, despite being a surgeon. It was a battle just to get to the surgeon's tent some mornings. Breathe in, aim, breathe out, fire. 

The flint sparked against the frizzen, the powder blessedly ignited, the ball flew towards its destination. 

The flash in the night and the resulting smoke hid Sherlock and the brute from John's view for far too long. He dashed through the dissipating smoke only to see the lowlife running into the darkness. 

"Sherlock!" John rushed through the final yards before collapsing to his knees beside Sherlock's prone form, dropping his gun to the cobbles. 

Sherlock was still breathing, though in a pained, wheezing manner. John pulled away all constraint from his neck, scarf, knotted neck cloth, shirt collar. It was hard to see whether Sherlock's long white neck was damaged, though his pale skin would surely show brilliant bruises in the next day. Sherlock indicated he wanted to sit up, so John swept his arm under Sherlock's shoulders and propped him up. Sherlock leaned forward and gave a hacking cough, but his breathing seemed easier after. 

"John, you left the bag," he rasped, barely able to squeak the words out of his injured throat. 

"The _bag_ , Sherlock? If I had stayed to get the bag, been even a minute later, you might be dead!" Sherlock wheezed in a breath and coughed it out harshly as if to prove John's point. "How can you for a moment have thought about that sack?" 

"Evidence," he gritted out, coughing again. "We should go. That gunshot will surely bring the watch." Sherlock's voice was gravelly, but stronger. 

John hadn't heard the shrill whistles of the watch at first, but he did hear the shouts and heavy boots striking the cobbles a street away. 

"We should stay here, answer their questions if we must, and take you home to rest. You were nearly strangled, Sherlock." 

"Nonsense, John, I wasn’t even unconscious yet. We need to head back to the river and try to collect that sack, take it to the morgue…" 

"Damn that sack, Sherlock! You almost died!" 

"Why do you keep harping on that, John? You don't need to worry; I'm sure your provision in the case of my death is quite generous. You would be a wealthy widower, easily able to attract another spouse." 

Sherlock struggled to his feet; John ceased to support him. In fact, John sat back on his heels and stared up at his husband's full height, plainly astonished. 

"Sherlock," he breathed. Sherlock barely spared him a glance as he picked up John's discarded gun from the street. "I realize we haven't known each other very long, but that has to be the most horrible, vicious thing you've ever uttered in your life." 

Sherlock blinked in surprise, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the arrival of the watch. 

"Mr. Holmes, sir, it's you." Apparently Sherlock had a reputation among all the law enforcement in the city. Too bad that John didn't bloody care. 

"Too late to be of any use, as usual," observed Sherlock. "The suspect has gotten away. John, where are you going?" John had struggled to his feet, his leg aching from hip to toe now that the adrenaline of the chase was wearing off. 

"Fetch the blasted bag from the Thames yourself. Swim in the muck if you must. I'm going home." 

John headed towards the last street he could remember where he'd seen a hack, hoping he could find one before his leg gave out entirely. Though he felt Sherlock's eyes on his back, Sherlock made no move to stop his leaving. 

When John made it back to Baker Street, Matthews' raised eyebrow was all the indication of surprise he showed at John's turning up alone. 

"You may as well lock the door, Matthews. I don't believe Mr. Holmes will be returning anytime tonight. If he does, he can scratch at the door like any other stray." John limped up to his room, his extended run taking its toll. He leaned heavily on his cane, even considered asking Matthews for assistance with the steps, but still had the strength left to slam his bedroom door shut. Then he turned the key in the lock for good measure.


	42. Chapter 42

Lestrade found Sherlock the next morning in the morgue at St. Bart's. Anderson wasn't in that day, so the place was devoid of the normal din of insults and potentially lethal chemical altercations. 

"Heard we've got something we can identify." 

Sherlock gestured to the three heads propped up on the table before him. 

"Right, well, I'll go through the files and bring in a few likely…" 

"No need," Sherlock said shortly. "Lionel Pine, Dorothy Mae Hopkins, Charles Bellows." Sherlock pointed to each in turn without looking up from his scribbling. 

"Well, I'll go visit the families, then, have someone come down to claim the… bodies." 

"Fine. I'm finished with them." 

"No mummification or jars full of alcohol or boiling them in acid, Holmes?" 

"No." 

That was the response that gave Lestrade pause. Sherlock would usually have told him how moronic his suggestions would be, not catching the joke. He'd start a lecture on the scientific process of evidence-gathering and proper analysis of human remains. Maybe even go off on a rant about destroying vital evidence and how could Lestrade even suggest that as someone who "aspired" to be a detective. 

Lestrade wasn't sure what to say now that the conversation had escaped normal parameters. 

"So…" Lestrade looked around the room. "Where's that new husband of yours?" 

"Home, I expect," Sherlock answered after nearly a minute. 

"Well, I suppose running after you all day can exhaust any man." 

Sherlock just stared at his pages of notes, not writing, not even seeing them as he rifled through them, possibly. 

"So if you're done with the heads, why are you still at the morgue?" 

"Lestrade, this is hardly the time for idle chatter. Don't you have families to notify?" Sherlock's voice was sharp. 

"Is something wrong, Holmes? You seem…" Lestrade would have been hard-pressed to say that Sherlock was behaving worse than usual, but he was generally more manic and buoyant. Granted, this case had been dragging on, but Lestrade thought that the utter peculiarity would keep Sherlock vastly entertained. 

"I'm fine." Sherlock stood and began gathering his papers together as Lestrade perched on a stool across the table from him. 

"You and Watson have a little tiff already?" 

"None of your business." Oh, that was full of bite. 

"What did you say to him?" Lestrade asked, tone full of condescension and scold. 

"Why do you automatically assume it was my fault?" 

"Ah, so that is the problem!" Lestrade leaned his elbows on the table after checking that it was free of bodily fluids. "Watson seems like a good-natured man. And I've known you six years, Holmes." 

Sherlock rolled up his papers and tucked them into one of the pockets of his greatcoat before settling it over his shoulders. 

"Come on, what happened last night? I know there was a chase. Had Gregson from the night watch in my office when I got there this morning but he didn't tell me much." Sherlock gave Lestrade his typical contemptuous look. 

"Gregson was late, as usual." 

"You're really going to make me drag it out of you, Holmes?" 

"What do you want me to say? I don't understand why John is angry with me. I don't understand why he departed so suddenly for home after stopping a suspect from strangling me." 

"So he saved your life. Great, what did you say immediately after that?" 

"He did not save my life. I hadn't even lost consciousness yet." 

"That's what you said to him?" Lestrade was using that Sherlock-is-an-idiot tone even though he was quite aware how much Sherlock hated it. Except this time Sherlock didn't react to it with the huff and stalking off like he usually did. Interesting. 

"No." Sherlock sat down again, resigned to hashing out the night with Lestrade. Maybe it would be helpful. Sherlock could admit that he wasn't the best at understanding the people with whom he interacted personally. Something as intimate as marriage was certainly a conundrum. "Well, not right away." 

Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow and waited. 

"When we saw the man drop the bag off the edge of the bridge, I told John to fetch the bag and wait for me. Instead, he ran after me. I indicated he made the wrong choice." 

Lestrade rubbed his face, ending with the palm of his hand over his mouth as if to keep from interrupted Sherlock to scold him. "Mm hmm," was all he uttered. 

"It could have been lost, Lestrade, though clearly the culprit wants the clues to be found. The bag was tossed over the edge in such a way that it landed on the Westminster Stairs. By the time I returned for it, the contents had already been discovered and reported. It's vital to unraveling the mystery to have concrete identifications to our victims. It will help us narrow down the time and place of the disappearances, which may help us…" 

"John Watson, Holmes. You're veering off topic." 

Sherlock looked chagrinned. 

"What was the last thing you said to him before he got angry?" 

"He refused to listen to me regarding the sack. He kept repeating that I almost died, when I didn't. I told him not to worry so much because his provision in the case of my death was quite generous." 

Lestrade closed his eyes to keep from rolling them heavenward when he heard this. 

"I see," was all he could say for a few minutes. Then, "First, you should have thanked him. I realize that gratitude is not in your repertoire, but when someone saves your life, you thank them." 

"Lestrade, as you say I am hardly the most gracious person; it would not have occurred to me to change my habit in that situation." 

"That is another thing. You can't treat him like you treat everyone else. He's your husband, Sherlock. I realize you've barely just met, and Heaven knows you're a difficult, forthright man, but you're going to have to learn some amount of consideration if you wish to have a pleasant home." 

"What do you mean?" 

"You and Lord Sherrinford, for instance. Did you enjoy sharing a home with your brother?" 

"I agreed to marry a virtual stranger to escape that household, Lestrade. Surely you're not actually asking that question." 

"Do you wish to have that same antagonistic relationship with your husband?" 

"Oh. _Oh_." The unpleasant possibilities apparently flooded Sherlock's head. "But I'm still not sure where I misspoke." 

"You basically told him that he couldn’t care less if you lived or died." 

Sherlock turned his words around in his head. He supposed they could be interpreted that way. 

"But we barely know each other. Why should he care? He married me for money; that's hardly a secret between us." 

Lestrade just shook his head. 

"Captain Watson is a good man. I believe he wants to be a good husband." 

"You've barely met him." 

"Do you have evidence to contradict me?" 

Sherlock was silent. 

"He admires you, Holmes. Enjoys your company, no? Stayed all night with you in a morgue without complaint?" 

Sherlock gave a half-shrug, half-nod. 

"You know what? Go home. Talk to your husband. Fix this. Apologize and thank him. And then, for Heaven's sake, shut your gob. I'll send a message if I get another letter at Bow Street." 

"Lestrade..." 

"Go, or I won't send you a message if I get another letter. I'll burn it instead." 

"You wouldn't." Sherlock started out confident, but as Lestrade glared at him, his confidence faltered. 

_Jesus Christ on a cross_ , Lestrade thought, _Sherlock Holmes might have just actually listened to me._


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the comments and kudos and subscribers so far! :) My updates may slow down a bit from here on out, but I promise not to abandon John and Sherlock! :)
> 
> Also, I had a bit of a tough time putting this chapter in proper order. I had to write down all the things I wanted to say (and I wanted to say a lot!), print the pages out, cut between each segment, and then organize them like a puzzle to get the flow right. Matching chapter from John to follow shortly.
> 
> Thanks again! :)

"Where's John this morning, Matthews?" Sherlock asked as he walked in the front door. 

"Still abed, I imagine, Mr. Holmes. He hasn't rung yet." 

Sherlock glanced at the grandfather clock on his left. It was nearly eleven. Curious. Army habits should have woken him long before now. Months of illness and recovery, he supposed, could alter his sleep pattern. 

"Have Mrs. Hudson prepare a tea tray and leave it by the door." 

Sherlock peeled off his outerwear and let Matthews take his hat and coat before climbing the stairs. He wasn't confident that Lestrade's instructions would be of any use; after all, the man's wife was bedding other men. Still, despite his apparently abominable choice of spouse, the man had been married nearly ten years. 

Bristling, Sherlock put his hand on John's doorknob to do as he was ordered. 

Locked. 

Sherlock crouched to peer in the keyhole in the door plate. The key was still inserted on the other side, obstructing his view, but a careful prod with a piece of wire from the lock picking tools quickly retrieved from his room indicated the key was half-turned to wedge in the lock. Still, it was little matter to twist the key from the outside, prod it carefully until it fell to the floor, and twist a square-bent piece of wire until the bolt disengaged. 

Sherlock entered the dim, quiet room with little thought of his intrusion. He was staunchly ignored by the figure in the bed, standing in the middle of the room, lock picks still awkwardly clutched in one hand. 

"John?" 

No answer. 

"Your pattern of breathing indicates you are awake." 

Still nothing beyond another fluctuation of breath. 

The fire had been allowed to die, Sherlock noticed, and the room was chilled. The curtains were drawn against the late morning sun. John's clothes were neatly hung behind his dressing screen, though clearly Matthews had not been allowed in to help him undress. John's cane was propped against the bedside table, but his robe had slipped off the foot of the bed to the floor. The lamp that had remained lit the night before was dark; the oil level was still sufficient, so John had risen at some point and extinguished the flame. 

John was turned towards the far side of the bed, covers tucked up past his shoulders. Sherlock moved to the far side of the bed so John faced him. 

"John, are you ill?" The thought alarmed Sherlock, even if he could see that was not the case. John's face was not flushed with fever, nor was his hair matted with sweat. 

John did, however, close his eyes and twist around in bed so he was facing the other direction. When Sherlock followed, John moved to his back and stared resolutely upwards. If Sherlock wanted to look him in the eyes, he'd have to climb on top of him. 

Sherlock recognized the silent treatment; he was a master of it when doling it out to Mycroft. Very well. John may not be speaking, but he wasn't deaf. 

"Lestrade said I ought to thank you for your assistance last night, and apologize for what I said." 

"Huzzah for Lestrade." 

"Pardon?" Sherlock was relieved that John spoke, but he didn't understand the response. He had hoped that John would, at least, turn towards him. 

"Go away." 

An arm appeared from under the covers; it draped over John's eyes. 

"But, John, I…" 

"Go. Away." 

Sherlock had heard that often enough in his lifetime; he was generally pleased to oblige. Somehow, though, it actually hurt when it came from John. John was so genial, so amiable, even to Sherlock. Usually. 

When John hadn't spoken again and Sherlock hadn't moved after five minutes, John gave in. 

"When the door is locked, Sherlock, that is usually more than a mild request for you to stay out." 

"There is little more inviting than a locked door, John. Besides, if you had truly meant for me to remain outside at all costs, you would have moved the wardrobe in front of the door, or the dresser." 

"I'm tired, Sherlock." 

John's voice did sound weary, though it didn't have the slow cadence of sleepiness. 

"Did your leg pain you in the night? Perhaps I dragged you about the city too much yesterday. The exertion must have taxed the healing muscles, and I know you're subject to cramping in the night…" 

"Damn my leg!" John sat up suddenly and threw a convenient object at Sherlock with force; it might have done damage if the object had not been a pillow that simply whumped Sherlock in the face. 

The outburst stunned Sherlock into silence. 

"Of course you didn't think I could keep up with you running after that criminal! I couldn't! But I'm not helpless and I hate being treated as if I am! I'm tired of it, Sherlock." He slumped back on to the bed, flat now that he'd discarded his pillow. "So damn tired." 

"John, I…" Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. Lestrade hadn't thought of this angle, apparently, and hadn't given Sherlock any clue as to how to deal with it. He reiterated Lestrade's advice in his head. Apologize. Thank him. Shut your gob. The first two were helpful; the last, insulting. 

"I may have been wrong to instruct you to stay with the evidence. You quite possibly saved my life. I imagined he was only seeking my unconsciousness, but if he had continued after I stopped struggling, he may have succeeded in killing me." 

There was no response from the bed. 

"Lestrade also informed me that the remark I made about… after… was insulting to your character. I did not intend that result. I'm sorry. And mind you, I've never said those words to anyone but Mother, and I rarely meant them." Sherlock added the last statement in a rush, horrified at his own awkwardness. 

Sherlock searched his mind for something to fill the suddenly very loud silence in the room. _John wasn't forgiving him. John didn't want to speak to him. Sherlock failed at something so basic as giving an apology._

"You hit him, you know." 

John still didn't reply, but Sherlock had the distinct impression that he was listening. 

"That was quite an impressive shot. How far away were you when you fired? Fifty yards? You hit him in the chest between the fourth and fifth rib yet he barely flinched when the ball struck. He only disengaged when you continued to run closer." 

"He really ran away with a lead ball in his chest?" John finally said after an excruciatingly long minute. 

"Probably puncturing a lung at the very least," Sherlock verified. 

"How?" 

"I've no idea. It didn't seem to affect him in the least. Perhaps he wore some sort of armor or the ball had to penetrate a leather wallet and that slowed it down enough to cause very little damage. However, some of the man's fluids dripped on me, which I discovered later." 

"Fluids? Like blood?" 

"Very unlike blood, actually." 

John sat up at this and Sherlock smiled broadly, uncontrollably. 

"I've come to the conclusion that the murderer of the street boy Moss is in fact the same man dumping body parts. There must also be another criminal mind behind this, clearly. The oaf from last night is little more than a henchman. Less, perhaps." 

"He seemed to be a capable enough murderer last night." John's voice turned gentle. "How is your throat feeling this morning? And the bruising?" 

"It will heal." 

"Open the curtain, Sherlock, and let me examine it." 

Sherlock's immediate impulse was to argue, but he pulled the curtains so the weak winter light filtered in. He also opened the door to bring in the tea tray. Matthews had not left it beside the door as instructed but instead was holding it himself. Sherlock gestured the man inside to set up tea and also tend to the cold fireplace. He did so efficiently and unobtrusively. Sherlock also imagined he would report every word of his overheard conversation with John to Lord Sherrinford. 

John had settled himself upright while Matthews rebuilt the fire. He patted the edge of the bed beside him. Sherlock promptly sat. John's fingers worked at the knot of Sherlock's neck cloth, much less harried than he'd been when he'd done the same thing the night before. Sherlock had done a sloppy job retying it without a mirror when it was clear he'd be out for the rest of the night. 

"Does it hurt when you swallow?" 

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed just above his high collar as he tried it out. 

"A little. Nothing I can't ignore." 

"Does it hurt to twist your neck?" 

The knot came undone and John's nimble fingers unwound the cloth. He loosened the collar of Sherlock's shirt, gently touching Sherlock's chin to indicate he should look upwards, then side to side. 

"No, it's fine." 

"Good." John spent another minute lightly touching several of the bruises that ringed Sherlock's throat. "Might feel worse after you sleep, though." 

"I'm sure it looks much worse than it is." Sherlock felt his face flush a little. John removed his probing fingers. 

"Yes, your skin is incredibly fair. Do keep an eye on it. If the pain worsens or if there seems to be any unusual swelling, please let me know." 

"Very well." Sherlock stood and straightened his collar somewhat, leaving the neck cloth draped around loosely. "If you did not sleep well, and wish to rest, I could play the violin a while. It will help me think and it may help you sleep." Sherlock felt a sudden need to stroke John's hair. Ridiculous, and certainly not an urge to be indulged. "I have an experiment to plan out. I smelled a peculiar chemical combination when I was being strangled and from the fluid residue on my coat. I shall attempt to replicate it. Perhaps then we shall know the intent of our murderer." 

John appeared to give this offer much more thought than it deserved. He leaned back against the headboard, eyes flickering over his husband. 

"The music would be lovely, thank you."


	44. Chapter 44

Sherlock's throat was fine except for the bruising. Quite fine. Elegant. John could feel the steady pulse beneath his fingertips as he examined it. When Sherlock abruptly stood, John was disappointed but hardly surprised. 

"If you did not sleep well, and wish to rest, I could play the violin a while. It will help me think and it may help you sleep. I have an experiment to plan out. I smelled a peculiar chemical combination when I was being strangled and from the fluid residue on my coat. I shall attempt to replicate it. Perhaps then we shall know the intent of our murderer." 

John had not slept well, but it wasn't interference from his leg this time, at least not mostly. Instead, terrifying nightmares seared across his brain. It was as if those years at war had filled him up with horror and now the least little upset caused it to spill over. He saw Sherlock in a red uniform, suddenly a darker red because of all the blood. He saw himself cutting off pieces in a panicked attempt to save his life, but the streaming blood only got worse, deeper, rising above his ankles on the floor of the surgical tent. 

Once he woke half-paralyzed to the sight of a shadowy surgeon with a dripping saw blade poised just above his knee. It took a few moments to shake himself out of the vision and realize that the agony he felt was simply cramping again. 

"The music would be lovely, thank you." It might relax him enough to sleep without dreaming; no matter how exhausted John was, he couldn’t bear to try and sleep when the dreams were coming incessantly. Plus, now he knew Sherlock was home and safe, not running around London in the middle of the night. That eased his mind. 

"Sherlock, I wasn't really mad at you. I… felt useless. I took it out on you and I'm sorry." 

Sherlock's eyes widened and he froze. 

"That’s… alright, John." 

"No, it's not. I wasn't being honest with you. My leg pains me, yes, but when someone else treats me differently because of it, it makes me feel angry." 

Sherlock nodded. 

"I'm not the best with feelings, John, but I should understand motivation. I will file this away for further consideration. I cannot guarantee my behavior will improve immediately. But you should know, I asked you to get the bag because of the evidence, John, not because of your leg. Well, at least mostly." 

John unexpectedly grinned. 

"So what was in the bag, anyway? I assume it didn't drift away to sea." 

"Three heads. Lestrade is informing the families. One of them was Dorothy Mae Hopkins, so Mrs. Evans will have her closure." 

"As much closure as one can have with only a head and a hand to bury." 

Sherlock's hands fidgeted. 

"I made notes. They're downstairs, if you wish to look at them." 

John still felt weary, perhaps even more so that his anxiety from the night had gone with Sherlock's arrival. He wished for nothing more than for Sherlock to crawl into bed with him, wrap those long arms around him, let John use him as a pillow. He couldn’t ask for that, not yet. They were too far apart still; John probably wouldn't even find it relaxing with the shock in his head of it actually happening. 

"Maybe later, Sherlock. I ought to try and rest a little more. If I get up now, I'll probably fall asleep on the papers." 

"You'd still be handsome, even with ink on your cheek depicting a severed head. Rest, John, and join me when you feel up to it. I'll get my violin." 

Sherlock fled the room. John didn't miss their matching blushes when Sherlock told him he'd still be handsome. He lay back in bed with a whole new misery: longing for the touch of Sherlock Holmes.


	45. Chapter 45

When John woke, the haunting strains of the violin had long since ceased to drift through his door. He felt rested, though a glance at the clock on his mantle showed it was still early afternoon. After he rang the bell for Matthews, he shuffled to the cold tea tray left by the fireplace. The tea was long past being drinkable, but there was nothing wrong with the breads and sweets. 

Matthews arrived promptly to help John dress, though he could have done so himself since he wasn't planning on leaving the house. Matthews helped him into a long pair of trousers, fresh muslin shirt, soft leather shoes, and one of the thick sweaters knitted for him by Mrs. Phillips instead of a waistcoat. The wool felt warm and comforting. 

Before Matthews swept away with the forgotten tea tray, John requested that a cold meal be served in the sitting room. He'd gone to bed hungry, not having so much as tea the night before, and hadn't been in the mood to request anything special from Mrs. Hudson in the night. 

"And ask Mr. Holmes if he would care to join me, if he can be separated from his laboratory." 

"Mr. Holmes is currently in the sitting room, sir. I believe he has taken over the small dining table for his experiments." 

If Matthews hadn't said so, the smell of the sitting room would have immediately given Sherlock away. 

"Feeling improved, John?" Sherlock didn't lift his head from the dropper and test tube in his hands. 

"Much, thank you. You know, you have a perfectly good lab downstairs, Sherlock." 

"But there's no room for you there until I have the time to organize everything and I need for you to read while I work." 

"Anything in particular?" 

" _De viribus electricitatis in motu musculari commentarius_ by Luigi Galvani. Should be on the bottom right shelf, fourth book from the end." Sherlock tentatively sniffed his concoction. 

"Should I open a window or shall I trust you not to poison yourself?" 

"I work out all the chemical combinations on paper, first, before mixing them together. I am not working with completely unknown chemicals. I shall not inadvertently kill us both." 

"I hope I may trust you on that." John found the book in question and brought it with him to the chair by the fireplace, one facing Sherlock's direction. He settled himself, cane hung on the chair's arm, bad leg elevated on a faded hassock near the fire. "Might I ask why Galvani is on the last shelf?" 

"Purchased it yesterday." Sherlock added a drop of something new to his test tube, observed the results, jotted down a note. 

"You haven't had time to place it properly in your organizational system?" John gestured to the multitudes of books that had appeared on the shelving the morning before. 

"It is properly placed. I shelve chronologically." 

"Chronologically? By publication date?" That would make it a challenge to find anything, but it made John grin. 

"By date of interest. I wished to refresh myself on Galvani's theories of biology and electrochemistry. It has only become relevant recently." 

"How, precisely, is it relevant?" 

"He made certain conclusions about animal electricity that Alessandro Volta disproved; however, I seem to remember something about an electrical fluid in the studies. What if one could create this electrical fluid and inject it into a body?" 

"Is that what you think this mystery liquid is? An electrical fluid of some sort?" John had come across some of Galvani's experiments during his schooling, and of course the medical students found great delight in the ghoulish application of electricity to frogs and other simple creatures that populated the anatomy lab, but the full detail of his theories was unfamiliar. 

"I will not guess, no, but it is one of several working theories." 

"And that means that the man who attacked you is filled with this electrical fluid instead of blood?" 

"Electrical fluid, or perhaps some sort of preservative." 

"Sherlock, what are you saying? That this man who attacked you, that this creature, was resurrected from the dead, or is an artificial construct of a man?" 

"A homunculus, perhaps, named by Paracelsus, and created by someone for a purpose I cannot say. Really, John, you do surprise me. I had thought to have to explain a lot more of this to you." Sherlock turned to him, looking more than pleased. "You are certainly not as dull as the masses." 

"It's impossible, Sherlock! Alchemists have been trying to create life for centuries. None have ever been successful!" 

"Not impossible, John. When we have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." 

"That's crazy, Sherlock. There is a man, a real man, killing people and leaving their bodies all over London. A crazed, sick, evil man, but a normal man. What you're suggesting is the impossible notion, that which should be eliminated." 

"What we have, John, is a collection of body parts meant to be grafted onto another body." Sherlock jumped up and delivered a sheaf of notes he'd taken the night before while examining the heads. "You noted the excess skin yourself. On the heads, not only was there excess skin but there were stitch marks on both the skin and in the musculature that would support the head. Foolish, in my opinion, to remove the head completely since the spine is such a delicate and complex part of a man, but there you have it." 

"Sherlock…" John paged through the notes where Sherlock had carefully marked the location of each hole piercing the skin. 

"I'm not saying that our scientist-cum-necromancer was completely successful." Sherlock returned to his seat and added two test tubes rather haphazardly into a larger flask. 

"But you are saying exactly that if you think the man you saw last night is filled with electrical fluid." 

"And the result is apparently a mix of mental deficiency, loss of fine motor skills, and homicidal tendencies." Sherlock sniffed at his concoction again and sighed, setting it aside as a failure. "Read aloud please." 

John opened the book and glanced down at the first page. 

"It's in Italian, Sherlock." 

"Of course it is. With a first name like Luigi, do you expect the book to be written in German?" 

John rolled his eyes. "But I do not speak Italian." 

"You speak Latin and, most probably, at least some French. I think you can make do with those and an enthusiastic accent. Besides, I'm not asking you to translate. Simply read." 

John chuckled to himself at the ridiculousness of the request, but started his awkward recitation of the syllables on the page. 

By the time Matthews returned to light the lamps and remove John's supper tray, Sherlock had become frustrated with his rack of improper formulations. He tossed his scrupulous notes aside on the floor. He scraped a mark on his coat, sniffing it carefully before announcing that Matthews could certainly take it to be cleaned now; there was nothing more to be done. 

"Pace back and forth, just here, John." 

"Beg pardon?" John had been sitting, bad leg on a stool and warm near the fireplace. He'd been excused from Galvani's writings half an hour ago and had begun to read through the pile of newspapers Sherlock had delivered. 

"Why, Sherlock." His husband rolled his eyes, but answered. 

"I need to observe something." 

When it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to further elaborate on his demand, John heaved himself out of the chair with the aid of his cane and paced in the six foot area Sherlock indicated. Sherlock's eyes focused intently on him for a few minutes, but then they glazed over and he bounced out of his chair. 

"Oh!" he declared suddenly. " _Oh_! If the man who dumped the body parts is a construct, then he was possibly one of the missing persons in Lestrade's files. Matthews! I must dress and go to Bow Street at once! If I can re-sort the possibilities, I might be able to identify our murderer!" 

John still thought the idea of a resurrected man ridiculous, but Sherlock's enthusiasm warmed him. Sherlock shot up the stairs to his bedroom, Matthews following briskly but in a much less flurried manner. Matthews clipped down the steps a few minutes later, following Sherlock's loud, "Dress John, too! That jumper is positively pedestrian, even for Bow Street!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to post another chapter along with this one, because it's nearly finished... until Sherlock had his epiphany and is making me insert another chapter between the two. :) Also, meant to post this last night but AO3 hiccupped the moment I hit "post." Whoops! :)


	46. Chapter 46

John did not expect Lestrade to be at his desk when Sherlock burst into his small office at Bow Street, (with John following sedately behind, of course), yet the man was there, reading through stacks of papers and mussing his short-cut salt and pepper hair. 

"Good evening, Mr. Lestrade," John said as Sherlock stole the papers out of Lestrade's hand. Lestrade sighed resignedly and returned John's greeting. 

Lestrade's eyes danced over the two of them: Sherlock's muttering, highly-focused demeanor; and John's good-natured grin as he made himself comfortable in the corner chair again. 

"Yes, yes, clearly your advice worked, Lestrade. Stop gloating and start helping," Sherlock snapped. 

"Advice?" John asked. 

"Go through these," Sherlock directed, ignoring the question and dropping a pile of papers on John's lap. "Sort out any that fit the description." John nodded and started a 'no' pile and a 'maybe' pile for Sherlock to look through later. 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the two men. 

"Sherlock thinks one of the missing persons may have been… coerced into being an associate or henchman to a greater criminal mind," John clarified, since Sherlock didn't seem about to explain their intrusion. 

"Coerced, how?" 

John shrugged helplessly. "Killed and reanimated resulting in a highly suggestible mind." 

If Lestrade had been drinking, he would have choked on it. 

"Reanimated? You're pulling my leg." 

"No, actually John has the right of it. It is possible that an unknown scientific genius has made a breakthrough in the mysteries of life and death. What his further purpose is, I do not have enough data to postulate. Now, if we can just sort through all the files again, removing the ones which could not possibly be our killer or henchman…" 

"Killer?" 

"The young boy from the morgue," John answered. "Sherlock concluded that the man from his attack last night and the boy's killer are one and the same." 

"And that he's a reanimated corpse." Lestrade weakly attempted sarcasm failed miserably. 

"Yes, Lestrade, do keep up," Sherlock said sharply, abandoning one stack of papers for another. Lestrade slapped his hand down atop them to keep them from spilling across his desk. 

"I am not entirely convinced," John said with an uncertain tone. 

"One thing I've noticed about working with Holmes is that the more outlandish his theory, the more likely that he's right." Lestrade did not sound too particularly excited about this particular outlandish theory. 

During the ensuing silence, as Sherlock and John started glancing through the handwritten reports, Donovan rapped a meaty fist on the doorjamb. 

"Oi, Lestrade, I'm supposed to tell you that a body washed up this afternoon near the King's Arm Stairs." 

"Why are you supposed to tell me that?" 

"Dimmock thinks you'd like to see the body. Said you were poking your nose into a lot of missing persons." Donovan shrugged in a 'why should I care?' way. "I see you've made up from your little tiff with the husband already, Holmes. Can't imagine how that happened. Or does a little slap and tickle make it all better?" 

Donovan nearly danced with glee that Sherlock flushed red and had no response for him. 

"Oh ho! You look like a fish, Holmes, with that gaping mouth." 

John was the one who stood quite suddenly in front of Donovan, who was more than a head taller than him and nearly twice as wide. 

"If your messenger duty is done, Mr. Donovan, then I suggest you leave." John's Captain Watson voice slashed through Donovan's crude crowing and the beefy man blinked down at his underdog adversary. 

It only took ten seconds for Donovan to decide not to take his chances with the grim-faced, militaristic man standing chest-to-chest (sort of) with him. 

When Donovan left without another word, Sherlock glared at Lestrade as if he would tear the man's tongue from his mouth. 

The glare didn't disturb Lestrade. "Gregson from the night watch reported to the river police before he stopped by Bow Street. Nasty little gossip," he said. "When would I have spoken to Donovan today? And why would I have done, if it wasn't necessary? The man is an ogre." 

Sherlock sheathed his mighty glare with a bitter, "I know that," but still the papers he sorted through experienced a small amount of his wrath. His face remained flushed and he wouldn't look at John until he was distracted enough by the reports to put the incident aside. 

"No likely candidates," Sherlock decided after another hour. "This one," he said, holding up a file on Charles Bellows, might have been a possibility if we had not identified his head in the night." 

"Well, perhaps he was missing longer. How far back do these files go?" John asked Lestrade. 

"Only three months. If this fellow was taken longer ago than that, or was never reported missing, we wouldn't have a file." 

"Perhaps it was a natural death, or given the stitching on the neck, a convicted criminal. If our mystery scientist had been granted autopsy on a criminal, that would surely solve this with a simple inquiry. I know it would be unlike the others, but if it was a first try the madman is trying to replicate, perhaps he robbed a grave or, more likely, hired someone to do it for him like any other anatomist. We could ask around at the Fortune of War pub, see if there are any murmurings among the resurrection men." 

Both Lestrade and Sherlock looked at John, surprised. 

"What? I am a doctor. I'm not completely ignorant about where my lecturers got bodies for autopsy." 

"There was no stink of the grave on the body, just that strange chemical odour," Sherlock mused. "Of course, he was relatively well-groomed for a walking corpse, wore well-made clothes. If the body had been exposed to the cold weather, slowing putrefaction, and the blood quickly replaced with this remarkable fluid, then perhaps that theory should not be completely disqualified. This will certainly open up avenues for investigation, though I had been hoping to be closing in on the culprit by now." 

"Did he just say you could be right?" asked Lestrade with a gentle smirk on his face. 

Sherlock had delved deeply into his own mind and wasn't paying attention. 

"Yes, Mr. Lestrade, I do believe he did." 

"John, Lestrade!" Sherlock barked, halfway out the door. "Are you coming to the morgue to check on the body?"


	47. Chapter 47

The three men shared a hack again on the way to the morgue, reminding John of his recent wedding day: Lestrade pleasant and chatty; Sherlock distantly in thought; London passing outside the window, bustling with life. John wished for a moment alone with Sherlock so they could talk about what Donovan had said. Of course, Sherlock would likely deny all importance of the insult and his uncharacteristic reaction to it and stride away if possible. All in all, having the conversation entirely in John's head would be about as effective. 

Instead, John merely patted Sherlock's arm. 

"What is it, John? I'm thinking." 

"Nothing, Sherlock." John was glad the darkness inside the carriage hid his blush. "Just checking to make sure you were still with us." 

"Where else would I be?" 

"It wouldn't be the first time you jumped from a moving carriage and ran down a suspect you just happened to pass by on the street," 

Lestrade supplied, his grin nearly audible. 

"The door to the carriage has not opened, Lestrade. Surely even you can observe that. Now stop interrupting my thoughts with such trifling inanities." 

The hack rolled up to the morgue entrance of Bart's. Sherlock hopped out with his usual energy and left John and Lestrade to bring up the rear. John passed a coin to the driver. He'd plenty of coin, thanks to Petrina and her astounding ability to partner him at cards. 

By the time Lestrade and John had arrived at the door, Sherlock was already coming back out. 

"Suicide," he said with a certain dismissal. 

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked. 

John hid a smile. It was unlikely that Lestrade doubted Sherlock's verdict, but Sherlock did seem to gain satisfaction from listing off his deductions to an audience, for he puffed up when he began to explain. 

"Young woman, maybe all of twenty. Her dress has had panels added to the sides yet she does not currently need the full expansion. I'd estimate she gave birth less than a month ago. Likely she has left the infant with a sympathetic sister because the father of the babe was disinterested in making any formal arrangements or offer. She might have ended her life sooner, but she thought that the man would change his mind upon seeing the child. He did not. Thus she filled her pockets with stones and either jumped off Westminster Bridge, or, given the quick current, walked into the river at some other upstream point. No real point in dallying. Her identity will become known shortly; she was not in the water long enough before discovery to disguise her appearance with bloating. Not your division, Lestrade. Dimmock was either deliberately wasting your time, or he's too dull to see what is in front of him. Care for a drink?" 

Sherlock was already striding down the street, making quite a distance between them with those long legs of his. 

"The Fortune of War is that way," John said as he and Lestrade exchanged looks. The revelation made them both follow Holmes with just a little bit more haste. 

There was very little special about that public house on Pye Corner except that its very location so close to St. Bartholomew's Hospital made it a convenient location for surgeons and resurrection men to meet. John had never been there himself, though he'd spent a short time completing his surgeon's training at Bart's before he entered the army medical corps. The pub and its traditions were whispered about in the hospital halls, however. Several of the surgery lecturers were known to have a steady stream of incoming bodies for their students to observe and occasionally practice on, despite the law. 

The only legally available corpses were convicts sentenced to hanging and dissection and those sentences were becoming quite rare in comparison to rising demand by medical colleges. John considered the practice of stealing the dead from their rightful resting places despicable, but a necessary evil. After all, one shouldn't be cutting for the first time into a living patient. He couldn’t avoid the practice, as it was so pervasive, but he understood it. 

Sherlock paced outside the public house when they caught up to him. 

"Something the matter?" 

"Corbeau is working. He won't be helpful." 

"What did you say to him?" Lestrade asked with an eye roll. 

"I needed some leverage and may have threatened to tell some of the resurrectionists exactly how much he was skimming off their profits. It wouldn’t have been a threat at all if he hadn't been lying to them about it." 

"Mr. Lestrade and I can go in," John volunteered. "What should we look for?" 

Sherlock didn't answer him, just paced back and forth along the short side of the building. 

"You burned a bridge, Holmes," Lestrade scolded. "This is what happens when you don't think before you speak." 

"I always think before I speak, Lestrade." Sherlock flung his hands out in irritation. "The information was well worth Corbeau's current and future hatred at the time. Unfortunately, that situation is long past and we need his cooperation now." 

"Sherlock, just tell me what you need." John placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock stared at it until John pulled it away. 

"Ideally? I'd ask Corbeau to send someone with experience in fulfilling special requests around my direction. Also, if there was anyone rather new to the trade, someone unusual. And a hot toddy would be spectacular, if I thought he wouldn’t poison me." 

"What address should I give?" John slightly rumpled his clothing, pulling at the knot in his neck cloth to loosen it as if he'd been fighting with it all day. 

"Ours would be fine." Sherlock gave John a rather mystified look. "He won't recognize the address." 

"Fine. Coming Lestrade?" John gave a wide smile to the other man and held open the door for him. 

John and Lestrade ducked into the Fortune of War. It was moderately busy, but there were a couple seats near the bar. The pub landlord looked John and Lestrade over from behind the bar. A few of the men around the room did the same before turning back to their pints. 

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" Having taken his stock of them, the landlord clearly didn't think they were there for a drink. Lestrade and John swaggered up to the bar, taking a couple of seats closer to the landlord's suspicious glare. 

"Just stepped out of lectures at Bart's," John lied smoothly, affecting an Edinburgh accent. "Doctor Knox told me once this was a friendly place for surgeons to unwind at the end of a long day. Worked with him at the Brussels Military Hospital last year." John lifted his cane to demonstrate his point. 

Lestrade kept his mouth shut and his truncheon tucked carefully beneath his coat. He had no idea what John had in mind, but Lord knows he was a patient man. 

"Knox sent you by, you say?" 

"Aye," John agreed, still mysteriously Scottish. "Watson's the name. Taking some lectures up at Bart's before I head into private practice. This bloke's Doctor Russell." 

"Corbeau. Couple of pints?" 

John slid a generous coin across the smooth wooden bar. "That would take the sting out of hours observing in the theater." Two dark glasses slid back shortly. 

John gave Lestrade his bright, jovial grin at being accepted; Lestrade just raised an eyebrow in return and sipped the ale he was served. 

"So what do you suppose Himself was doing here that he got in trouble with the publican?" Lestrade said conversationally when Corbeau walked away to pull a few drinks for a table in the corner. 

"He wasn't working with you?" 

"He never mentioned this place. Then again, that doesn't mean 'no.' I try not to ask too much about his methods; makes him stroppy." John chuckled, twisting around in his seat to view more of the patrons. He hoped he looked like he was just propping up his bad leg with the bar rail. 

"Plus, more often than not, I'd prefer not to know how he gets his results or where he goes for them." Lestrade looked like he finally remembered the reputation of this place and glared at his ale as if it were tainted. 

"It's fine." John grinned again, taking a swig of his own brew. His eyes began to lightly glance over each patron, thinking Sherlock would certainly have quite a field day deducing the occupation and status of each one. There were a couple of tired-looking but well-dressed men who were certainly the type to be medical men from Bart's, though John didn't remember them from his time there. Several men were burlier, laboring class, and they sat together at a long table with occasional companionable laughter. A few friendly women livened up their party. Two fairly young men, barely in University if John was any judge, sat nervously in a corner, emptying their glasses faster than was good for them. 

"So how's it going, anyway, sharing bed and board with Himself?" Lestrade carefully avoided using the name Holmes, just in case Corbeau would happen to overhear. "Oh, er, if that's too personal, just tell me to shut it. Too nosy for me own good." 

"I suppose you're allowed to be nosy. I'd still be in a strop myself if it weren't for you." 

"So he did apologize? I'll have to ask Lord Sherrinford about having the Regent make today a national holiday." 

"He mentioned that it was, and would likely be, a rare occurrence. He also told me you put him up to it. Thank you for that." 

"Purely selfish motivations, I assure you. Can't have him sulking over you when he's working on a messy case like this." Lestrade winked at John to show he wasn't entirely serious and tossed back half of his drink. "I've known him a while. Can't say I've entirely figured him out, but there's a balance between letting him do what he wants and telling him what's right. You seem to be doing better than anyone expected." 

John nodded absently, still sipping his ale. 

Lestrade veered off the topic and tried to come up with a more innocuous topic. When their drinks had dwindled, Corbeau swung by and inquired if they desired another. John accepted, with another generous coin. 

Corbeau narrowed his eyes at his unfamiliar customers. 

"If you're fattening me up for the kill, gentlemen, I'd rather you dropped a sovereign on the table and had out with it." 

"With information at that premium, sir, it is a wonder you are not retired in a nice country house by now," Lestrade muttered. 

Corbeau bit the coin John passed over, examined it, and tucked it into a pocket. He leaned against the bar on thick forearms. 

"That price doesn't include taking your insolence. Now get on with it." 

John cast a quelling look at Lestrade and leaned in to make his inquiry more private. 

"I've a certain expertise I'm expected to demonstrate next week. I need a subject for my lecture, but I have a requirement that may make it a bit of a challenge." 

"At the Fortune of War, you take what's brought in, no questions," Corbeau answered dismissively. 

"My reputation in this field would be worth the generous finder's fee I'm offering. Certainly there is someone you know who might be willing to do a little legwork in order to gain the loyalty of a wealthy patron. Someone new, perhaps, willing to go some distance to secure a stable future?" 

Corbeau sized John and Lestrade up again. Lestrade passed for an average man, but John's clothes were new and very fine, expertly attended to despite his attempts to appear slightly disheveled. He'd so far handed over several coins with absolutely no haggling or question of price. 

"Thought you were off to private practice, sir?" Corbeau squinted his small dark eyes even further. 

"One must keep infrequently used skills sharp, as well as train assistants. I also have designs on the Royal Society." 

More of that bird-eyed gaze. "In that case, I suppose I might know someone, at that." 

"Excellent. I'm currently staying at Doctor Russell's home on Baker Street. Two-twenty-one. Send this friend of yours around to that address." 

"Might take a couple nights. He's not exactly a regular." 

"The sooner, the better, Mr. Corbeau. Any evening this week shall do fine." 

Corbeau gave them a curt nod and stalked off. It didn't appear that he'd gone to pour them another draft for their coin, and neither John nor Lestrade really wanted another anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the dragging wait on this one! When I wrote the final lines of the last chapter, I suddenly realized I had absolutely no idea what to do with the body, Bart's, or the Fortune of War pub (which is a real place with the history I described; there's a photo of it here from 1910 before it was torn down http://oldebreweryrecorder.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/fortune-of-war-public-house-giltspur.html). 
> 
> Anyway, I had a lot of ideas, but generally they were ones that would cause me to recklessly abandon almost all planned future direction, leading to more chapters where I had no idea what to do. I had a friend brainstorm with me and nothing. I even fell asleep, dreamt, and woke up to Regency Sherlock, and nothing. Finally, last night some of the bits I'd written and dismissed gelled together with a few other small details in my brain, and voila! I'm much relieved. :) There will also be a short companion chapter to this one arriving shortly, so keep your eyes out! :)


	48. Chapter 48

Sherlock skulked around outside the frosted windows of the pub, peering in the door when someone entered or left. Why were John and Lestrade sharing drinks and chatting with each other and not interrogating the pub's landlord? What were they laughing at? What were they waiting for? Sherlock stomped around inside his own head. If only Corbeau hadn't been so duplicitous, if only Sherlock had been able to go in there, he'd have finished the task already. He might even have a suspect he could hunt down, a name, a direction. 

Maybe John was still a little annoyed with him and wanted him to wait out in the cold alone for a while. That seemed unlikely; John had been quite amenable to his requests that afternoon. He even read to Sherlock (in admittedly deplorable Italian) while he worked. The sound of his mild voice had been desperately nice. And John's rather alarming attempt at the proper Italian accent had been quite funny even if Sherlock had been too intent on his experiment to laugh. 

He hadn't managed to replicate the concoction, but he could keep trying. It wasn't as important to the case as finding the culprit. But the evidence was leading him all over London. It wasn't a matter of having too little evidence, but too much. Too many possibilities. Oh, but it was brilliant! This interminable waiting, however, was horrendous. 

Sherlock hoped that John and Lestrade might come up with a viable lead inside The Fortune of War. Sherlock hadn't been strictly honest about why Corbeau was so annoyed with him, and tossing him out of the pub was the best case scenario if Sherlock sauntered in. Finding himself laid out on one of the benches in the back room with a price tag posted above him was much more likely. 

Sherlock fidgeted, wanting to hurry John and Lestrade along. What were they doing in there? John was turned to Lestrade, his smile sunny and Lestrade winked back. Blast! The door swung shut again and a patron brushed Sherlock aside in annoyance. Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to deduce how much the customer had to drink or what sort of profession he held, or which streets he'd walked through during the day based by the mud on his shoes or the smell of his jacket. 

Muddled, everything was muddled. The past twenty-four hours thoughts of John had taken up a rather defensive position in Sherlock's brain, despite all intent to rout them completely. First John had gotten along at the Professor's quite famously, proving himself well able to converse along the lines of Sherlock's more peculiar interests. John was intelligent; perhaps not up to Sherlock's level of brilliance, but he'd educated himself well and perhaps only his dedication to his comrades-in-arms had kept him from rising higher in his ranks or securing a safer, more prestigious medical position in a hospital or university. 

Later that night, John had become unbearably angry with him only to turn about and confide in Sherlock something private and, John clearly thought, shameful. Sherlock couldn’t even focus completely on the heads in the morgue for thinking about how things were broken and how powerless he was to understand them, much less fix them. 

And John had touched him. John was always touching him. Sherlock noticed this acutely. They walked linked hand-on-elbow and John sometimes patted Sherlock's arm which immediately turned his thoughts from wherever they were to John. 

Sherlock couldn't help his voice coming out a bit cross when John touched him. It wasn't that he didn't like it. He did – too much. It distracted him and he could not afford to be so distracted in the midst of a case. But he didn't want to forego that touch either. John's hand tucked around his elbow, John's fingers so light and careful on the bruising on his throat, John's strong hand cupped over his shoulder. Just those simple touches were too much, so much. 

And there were more touches to think on – John's hand warming his knee in the garden while pressing those (kind, smiling, pleasing) lips to Sherlock's own. It had been all Sherlock could do not to respond ardently in full view of his brother's guests. There was little, perhaps nothing, John could do to keep Sherlock from wanting to respond ardently, and therein lay the problem. Sherlock wouldn't let himself fall into that maelstrom of mindless lust and animalism that accompanied intimate relations. 

Even now, when Sherlock ought to be spending his downtime going over the details of the case in his head, his thoughts were entirely on the handsome young man he had somehow agreed to marry. It would have been so much easier if he could bring himself to ignore his husband's existence. 

And again, that warm hand on the middle of his back, John's hand, nudged Sherlock out of his reverie and back onto Giltspur Street where both John and Lestrade were suddenly standing. 

"You should have heard John's Edinburgh accent, Holmes. It was profoundly funny. Had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing every time John opened his mouth." 

"I do hope it was better than your atrocious Italian accent, John," Sherlock quipped dryly. John laughed. The sound was merry and made Sherlock warm even in the cold night. 

"Oh, aye, I'm a right master of the language of my forefathers, husband," John said in his thickest Scottish brogue. "So prove to me your Italian accent is quality enough to deride mine." 

Sherlock felt a bit giddy as John looped their arms together and tugged him in the vague direction of home. That giddiness was the only explanation for what Sherlock did next. 

He began to sing. 

The notes of the rude little ditty bounced along in a catchy manner, the words pronounced in his worst Italian, his rich voice full of all tones playful. 

Sherlock could speak flawlessly in six languages, there was the interview with Corbeau to discuss, there was Lestrade to dismiss for the night, but instead Sherlock wanted to make John laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a silly turn after I found a clip of Benedict Cumberbatch singing http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phY0WbePZuE  
> It just had to make it into the chapter, especially after I unknowingly made John speak Italian earlier.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a total geek, but this is one of the first chapters I wrote for this story and I've been waiting to post it for utterly AGES!! :)

Sherlock burst into John's bedroom the next morning with unusual fervor carrying, of all things, John's morning tea tray. He flew across the room dressed in nothing more than an untucked shirt and breeches under an open banyan, feet bare despite the morning chill. 

"Do wake up, John!" he said, plunking the tea tray down on the table hard enough that the cup and saucer clanked and rattled. 

The upon-waking bleariness shot out of John's eyes as he assessed the threat before realizing where he was. 

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said when the fact that he was in their home in London, in his own warm bed. It was a comforting realization he'd had to make a couple times in the night. The lamp he left burning by the door still glowed in the daylight. Sherlock noticed and padded over to extinguish it without a word. The thick fabric of his robe billowed out behind him as he walked. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning call?" John adjusted himself in bed, sitting up and fluffing pillows against the headboard. 

"An experiment, John. I could barely stand to wait for you to wake!" 

"You didn't wait, Sherlock." But his annoyed tone was false and Sherlock didn't notice it anyway. 

"You were sleeping badly as it was." He made a sweeping gesture at John's bedside table where a second lamp sat, oil somewhat depleted, as well as a book. John imagined Sherlock knew exactly how many pages he'd read in the night, too. 

"Come now, take your morning piss and drink your tea so we can begin." Sherlock brought up the chamber pot from under the bed. "In whichever order you prefer, John, but do hurry." 

"What's the rush?" John tried to evacuate his bladder in the time Sherlock was turned away fetching his tea. 

When John finished, Sherlock rushed away with the covered pot, leaving John to sigh and wonder if the man planned to experiment with it rather than just empty it. Really, he did not want to know. 

Sherlock had left his tea on top of his book so John could reach it from the bed. Matthews had been leaving it on the table near the fireplace when he came in to build up the fire. The change was nice. Usually it took him a good five minutes to balance himself out of bed and creak the short distance to his comfortable chair. It was awful starting every day feeling so old and decrepit. Perhaps he should request his tea tray beside the bed in the future. The thought made him feel sixty. Perhaps not. 

Sherlock returned pot-less. 

"So what is this experiment, Sherlock?" 

"I've noticed your movements in the morning, John. It takes you a painfully long time to rise and start getting about. You walk about a good deal during the day with relative ease, thus your leg must stiffen in the night. I would like to try some different massage and exercise techniques to see if any will make it easier on you." 

John's eyebrows lifted as he sipped his tea. That was thoughtful and… personal. Very personal. 

"Are you drinking your tea? Have you drunk it?" 

John hid his smile by further draining his cup before setting it aside. 

"First, I must examine the scarring." He flung back the covers in one great wave. 

"Sherlock!" The chill of the room was a bit startling and John's nightshirt was rucked up, leaving John on display from the waist down. John flushed red and tugged the tail of his nightshirt to a slightly more modest position. 

"Yes, what is it?" Sherlock either did not notice his blatant nudity or he was pleased that he could freely examine John's leg from hip to toe without obfuscation. 

"Never mind," John replied as he lay back and looked at the ceiling. He did not need to look at his own leg again. Let Sherlock see if he wanted. 

"Aren't you cold, Sherlock?" John asked after a few minutes. Sherlock had stirred up the fire, but the room was still cold and now John's lower extremities were fully exposed. 

"Cold is a state of mind." Sherlock was wrong enough but his dismissive statement made John smile. 

He tried not to think of the intense perusal, to pretend that Sherlock was just another doctor, not his rather distant husband. Certainly not the husband that strode into his bedroom in a state of undress looking so handsome and long-legged and rumpled. And definitely not the husband whose slim form John wished to similarly explore. He could only pray that his hot blood stayed in his face and didn’t deflect to similarly heat up his groin. 

It was clinical, Sherlock's examination, and methodic, if very hands-on. Sherlock covered each scar with cool fingertips, moving John's leg this way and that, bending his knee and ankle slightly to see the movement. Still, sometimes the movements were undignified and John felt incredibly uncomfortable cupping his hands over his groin. If this was going to be a regular occurrence, he was going to wear drawers to bed. 

"I shall try massage first, John. It will also allow me to more deeply examine the scarring in the muscles and tendons underneath. It may increase your discomfort at first, though." 

John made a non-committal hum. It wasn't as if Sherlock was waiting for permission. 

The massage – slash – deep tissue exam wasn't entirely pleasant, but John refused to complain. Sherlock was trying to help; the least John could do was let him. Sherlock might raise John's leg perpendicular to the rest of his body, for example, and dig his fingers into a particular scar and bend his knee to feel how the muscles and tendons moved under his fingertips. John tried to think of his anatomy dissections and wondered if Sherlock had attended anatomy lectures himself. It seemed more than likely. 

John was rather glad that those fingers sometimes caused him pain. It was better than the fluttery feeling of arousal in his belly when Sherlock's hands were too gentle and explored places like the uninjured inner bend of his knee or the soft skin where this thigh flared into buttock. Sometimes those fingers just ruffled the hairs on his legs, or outlined a deep scar. John would flush with embarrassment, or least he called it that, and will his thoughts to something less lascivious than Sherlock making those same intent observations over every inch of his body. 

More than (an agonizing) half an hour later, Sherlock declared himself finished for the day. 

"I believe it is the scar tissue here that is the biggest problem." Sherlock indicated one of the darkest scars just below John's knee. "It has stiffened up a tendon, though I believe the tendon is intact or at least healed. We shall have to see if we can stretch it a bit. Was it painful, John?" 

"Some, yes," he replied when he realized he was expected to do so. 

"I'm not doing this as systematic torture. You should have said something if it hurt too much." 

"It wasn't too much, Sherlock." John laid his hand on Sherlock's arm, not even sure if the man was still listening. "I promise I'd tell you if it was too much. It was nothing more than I'd feel all morning hobbling around on my own. Besides, I have faith that this will help." 

"You do?" 

"I do, Sherlock. If my health is a puzzle for you to figure out, I imagine I'll be an acrobat by the end of the month." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the hyperbole but it was clear to John that the faith and flattery eased some strain inside him. Inside both of them, perhaps. 

"Well, walk about then, and tell me if it is improved." Sherlock handed John his cane and moved far enough away to properly observe. So this was why Sherlock had asked him to walk around so randomly the day before. John slid off the bed, balancing carefully. He took a few steps, one hand on the edge of the bed. By the time he'd made it to the fireplace, he felt much more comfortable. 

"I feel very much improved, Sherlock, nowhere near as rough as I usually do first thing. Thank you." 

John beamed at him and Sherlock was momentarily taken aback. 

"You're welcome, John." 

A few more trips about the room and John said, "I think I'm ready to dress and join civilization. Would you like to walk out with me around ten and perhaps discover a new restaurant for luncheon?" 

"If you wish, John. I must make a list of the unguents and salves I want to try, and we can go shopping after I finish writing up my notes on our experiment." Sherlock abruptly strode out the door, slamming it shut behind him.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of Holmes home fluff :)

When John had been dressed, he joined Sherlock in their sitting room. A heartier breakfast had been laid to table and John helped himself to it. Sherlock lounged in one of the chairs at the small table, left hand hovering over his teacup and no evidence of food on the plate before him. His attention was on a silver tray of mail to his right. A hearty percentage of said mail had already been flicked to the floor. Matthews stood near the door with his eyes trained studiously away, as if he desperately wanted to pick it up but had already been scolded from doing so once. 

John scooped up a few stray letters from the floor after he'd set his plate down and settled himself in his chair. 

"Well, you did say once that you had little interest in correspondence, Sherlock, but this is a trifle extreme, is it not?" 

"Nonsense, John. Extreme would be setting fire to the salver. Or at least that's what Mycroft deems extreme." 

John shot an alarmed glance at Matthews. The servant flicked his eyes over, gave the smallest of smiles, and straightened up again. 

"Perhaps I ought to deal with the mail, then, shall I? Then you only have to view those few pieces of the utmost importance." 

"Gladly." Sherlock nudged the salver towards John, keeping only one small square of paper for himself. John nodded towards Matthews, who quickly crouched by his side to collect the rest of the letters discarded on the floor. John then tidied the pile and examined each return address before sorting the letters into one of several piles. Notes clearly from Sherlock's family, or which addressed Dr. and Mr. Watson-Holmes, John piled together in a "wedding salutations" stack, while others from addresses and names he did not recognize, or notes addressed to Sherlock in particular were designated into another. A third stack emerged when he recognized the name of Edgers and Sons and he began a "bills" pile. 

John took a few bites of his meal before tackling the first pile. Each note was unfolded carefully, read, and set aside for a later reply. John also made a mental note to start a book of addresses for the directions of each of Sherlock's relations. Only two of the letters had been from John's own relation, and no one besides Harry had been in attendance at his wedding. 

"Just throw those away, John. If you get into the habit of replying to correspondence, then it shall become expected that you do so. The volume of letters exchanged will increase exponentially." 

John agreed just a little bit, if only because he dreaded writing out the same insipid reply to each well-wisher. 

"Oh, but your cousin Petrina writes. We should have her for a visit before she leaves London. She's quite engaging." 

Sherlock didn't answer; he appeared to be lost in his mind once again. The letter he'd kept was held open by his long fingers; John took a bite of his toast and tried to see who it was from. Lestrade, he guessed by the sprawling initial at the bottom of the page. 

"What does Mr. Lestrade write this morning? Some new evidence on the case since last night? Or has he written to inform you of another mysterious letter arriving at Bow Street?" They had left the man less than twelve hours ago. Surely, unlike Sherlock, Lestrade was a man who went home and slept occasionally. 

"Hmm? No, not yet. He writes to remind me of an execution this morning, a man named Davies we caught some months ago. His sentence came as quite a relief to Mr. Lestrade. The evidence against him was quite circumstantial until I noticed a new, shiny nail in one of the floorboards. It suggested a bent nail had been recently replaced, so I had the constables tear up the floorboards in his house and dig beneath. If the man had disposed of his bloody clothing and the murder weapon in the Thames and they'd been swept out to sea, we would never have obtained a conviction." 

"So he was hanged this morning, then? Did you not wish to attend to see the sentence carried out?" 

"Not particularly. It is enough knowing it was done." 

"So whom did he murder?" 

"Irrelevant. The details of his sentence were related to the cannibalism." 

"Oh." John removed the sausage from his plate. After a moment, he laid a napkin over it. 

"Lestrade writes that the body will be subjected to dissection this afternoon. The presiding surgeon will be Forrest Oliver. He is not the most entertaining or dramatic of dissectionists, but he does have some interesting theories on the human brain. It is likely he will be curious about what might turn a man to such unnaturalness. After all, Davies was quite plump and hardly ill off enough to starve." Sherlock returned to thoughtfulness and John returned to a somewhat unappetizing breakfast. 

"Did you wish to attend the dissection, then, Sherlock? Or did you have other plans for the afternoon? We ought to be here in the evening in case our resurrection man turns up, but otherwise our plans are flexible." 

"It could be useful. Not for the dissection itself, but to view the audience." 

They agreed to go and Sherlock mentioned nothing of being banished from the theaters of St. Bartholomew's as he had been from the Royal Society; he was clearly allowed free reign (despite Anderson's objections) over more than just the bowels of the building. John looked forward to Sherlock's likely heckling of the afternoon's lecturer with some juvenile delight. It seemed fair to assume that he wouldn’t hold his tongue if he deemed anything the lecturer postulated was untrue; and with as brilliant as Sherlock had proven to be so far, it was probable that the lecturer would stumble on at least one topic. 

They spent the morning strolling around London, John's gloved hand curled around Sherlock's elbow as was becoming custom. Sherlock spent much of the time describing the differences between mud splatter from the banks of the Thames and the splash of a puddle of slush forming amongst uneven cobbles. John laughed when he realized Sherlock had delivered a deliberately ridiculous deduction about the mud in Mayfair being of much finer grain than mud elsewhere in London and, of course, imbued with gold shavings from the wealthy inhabitants. 

Sherlock smiled back, pleased. He allowed John to examine the splashes on his boots when they sat to luncheon a couple hours later and described the area of the city where each bit of dirt originated. 

"It is the smallest detail, John, that often solves a puzzle," Sherlock lectured over their midday meal. "The shininess of a nail head betrayed Davies. By a man's fingernails, his callouses, the cut and mend of his coat, one can decipher his life. I have trained myself to notice these things as much as possible." 

John's face glowed at Sherlock, surprising the taller man into an uncomfortable silence. He picked at the spicy food in front of him. John had not objected when, instead of a fine hotel restaurant, Sherlock had led them to a rather dark and smoky room inhabited only by dusky foreigners, though he couldn't help but question whether this was even a restaurant. Sherlock had met this with a bright smile and wink. 

"There are small pockets of foreign lands within London, John, if you know where to look." 

Sherlock had ordered for both of them when a smiling gentleman stopped by their table. John's mouth had dropped open when Sherlock began speaking in the same nasal tongue he heard all around him. The waiter (if that was what he was) smiled again and bowed three times before backing away. 

"My goodness, Sherlock, when did you learn that language?" 

"I daresay, I would never starve in Canton, but I am not fluid in all aspects of the language." 

John chuckled. "They seem unsurprised to see you here. Do you visit often? I had no idea this part of the city existed." 

Sherlock allowed that he'd eaten here several times, and that the food was excellent, if unfamiliar to British palates. 

Their food arrived quickly, thin soup and noodles, a few vegetables John was unfamiliar with. It was quite delicious and he made quick work of each dish placed in front of him. Sherlock was too distracted to eat much but he did sip down his portion of the soup and ate a few bits off John's plate to show him the unfamiliar dishes were tasty. 

After John's appetite was sated, they rose to meander in the direction of St. Bart's Hospital.


	51. Chapter 51

The large operating theater where the dissection would shortly take place teemed with richly dressed, educated gentlemen, young, hastily-dressed students, and a very few ladies of indeterminate occupation. The acoustic quality in the room was such that the multitude of voices created quite the din. Sherlock and John had handed their greatcoats to the porter and now milled around, Sherlock's eye to the attendees. 

"Watson! John Watson!" 

John turned, surprised to hear a voice acknowledging him. He'd become accustomed to being the stranger in the room. 

"Stamford. Good God, man, how long has it been?" 

"Long enough for me to get fat on a good wife's cooking," the man answered genially, patting a rounded belly. He eyed the man on John's arm with a bit of curiosity. 

"Mike Stamford, let me introduce you to my husband, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." 

"We've met a time or two, John. Stamford." Sherlock nodded his head at John's acquaintance then continued to scan the room. 

"I just can't believe it. I mean, everyone in the hospital was talking about the announcement in the papers, but I didn't realize you were the John Watson that Holmes married." As if Stamford realized he'd said something a bit odd, he added a hearty, "Congratulations!" 

"Thank you, Stamford." John wasn't quite sure how he felt about the entire hospital gossiping about his marriage, but his experiences in Sherlock's world perhaps made it a little understandable. 

"I'd ask what brings you here, but of course it is the dissection this afternoon. You must come sit with me; I have some good seats reserved for my students." 

"Sherlock, is that alright?" 

Sherlock had only kept half an ear to the conversation. "What? Oh, that would be fine." 

"Excellent. I have to round up a few stragglers from my class, but I'll be back before they start to collect you." 

Stamford shook John's hand, didn't even offer to the oblivious Sherlock, and wandered off into the crowd. 

"He trained with me here at Bart's," John explained. 

"Obvious." Sherlock ushered John into another corner of the room and turned them so they could see the whole of it. 

"Who, precisely, are we looking for, Sherlock? The kidnapper? The murderer? The resurrected man?" 

"Someone usual, but unusual." 

"That's helpful." 

"It is unlikely that the procurer would attend a public dissection. He is likely a working man in the employ of another," Sherlock murmured, distracted by a new influx of people at the door. "Oh, fantastic," he groaned a moment later. "I suppose I should have expected this." 

Not many women attended dissections, though not because they were forbidden from them. Some demonstrations were vastly more gore and morbid entertainment than science, and one notoriously grotesque event had even been credited with the death of a spectator from fear. Thus, the female population of an autopsy audience was generally limited to those who harbored scientific interest or bravely accompanied those who did. 

But now Lady Irene Adler walked through the door as if this were a ball or musical entertainment, garnering attention from any man lucky enough to be close enough to the door to fawn all over her. She answered these fond greetings with a gracious and flirtatious smile. 

"Goodness," John breathed, "She is quite the last person I would have expected to see here." 

Sherlock didn't respond with anything other than a sub-vocal growl when the lady in question caught them with her eyes and excused herself from her admirers to make her way over to them. 

"Lady Adler." John took her offered hand and bent over it politely. "Do you often attend the medical theater?" 

"Captain Watson, I do hope marriage is treating you well." She withdrew her hand and offered it to Sherlock, who, as usual, glared at her hand as if the very delicate skin of it offended him. "Mr. Holmes." She did not take offense at his slight but smiled the wider at it. "To answer your question, Captain Watson, I do take interest in intellectual pursuits of all sorts. I find a keen and well-honed mind to be the most tantalizing of attributes." Her voice was all flirtation and seduction, leaving John at a loss for words momentarily. "And yourself, Captain Watson? Does medical spectacle interest you, or are you here merely to accompany your husband." 

"I was a surgeon in the army, Lady Adler. I believe the occasional autopsy may keep my skills sharp even as I'm not currently practicing." 

"Ah, so you are in possession of a great amount of anatomical knowledge," Lady Adler purred, reaching over to touch her fingertips lightly to John's upper arm. "Your aptitude in such matters must be of great benefit to your husband." 

"I believe he has found it useful on occasion," John replied stiffly, knowing quite what she was insinuating and refusing to be baited. 

"Quite," Sherlock interjected as if he did not have a clue what 'insinuation' even meant, "John's medical knowledge has proven quite helpful on my latest case." 

"Ah, a case, of course. Well, Captain Watson, if you ever grow tired of our Sherlock's predilection for puzzles, do call on me at Bond Street. I'm sure we could explore our common interests more in depth." 

With a coquettish smile, Lady Adler departed, finding much more willing prey. 

"Sherlock," John said in a tight voice, "I still cannot believe that woman is someone of your close acquaintance." 

"You forget, John, that the association between ourselves is quite short and that there is much unshared history. It would be unwise to make assumptions at this juncture." Sherlock's voice was equally sharp. 

"I do not forget." John might have added more but Sherlock interrupted. 

"Besides, she is the harmless one, or relatively. Prepare to meet the arch-demon to her succubus." 

John blinked at the sudden change. Sherlock scooped up John's hand again and held it to his elbow from where it had long since fallen away. 

"Victor. Fancy seeing you here." 

John couldn’t decipher the tone of Sherlock's voice. Dead, perhaps, was the closest. Then the name Sherlock spoke filtered through his brain. This man was Victor. And Sherlock had called him a devil. 

John, curious to understand how the young man in front of him could have earned such a pronouncement, unabashedly examined Victor Trevor as he approached. He was tall, taller than John, certainly, though not as tall as Sherlock. His lithe form reminded John of a rapier: strong, flexible, sharp. He had a headful of chestnut hair, fashionably swept forward, and pretty, delicate features. He wore fine clothes almost exorbitant in their cut and fabric and shoes so pristine one had to wonder if he'd worn them before today. Perhaps he discarded them daily. 

"My dear Sherlock," the man said with much affection, maybe too much affection, "surely you wouldn’t forget my unabashed obsession with human anatomy. I could not resist the afternoon diversion when Lady Adler suggested it. Your presence only makes the decision more apropos." 

Placing hands on Sherlock's shoulders, the young gentleman known as Victor leaned forward and leaned forward. Sherlock cleared his throat and took a step back, face flaming at the public familiarity. 

"Victor, this is my husband Doctor John Watson, formerly a captain with the 52nd Northumberland Fusilers." Sherlock's voice was firm, though his eyes flickered over the man facing him with a squint of suspicion. "John, Victor Trevor." 

"Oh, of course, I've heard all about the _little_ soldier. How do you do?" 

John let Victor shake his hand, regarding him curiously. If Sherlock hadn't said otherwise, he would have thought this man somewhat a foolish dandy. His German accent was light, his voice was melodious and friendly, his smile was quick and bright. 

"I understand you two met at University," John said, wondering what sort of response he'd get. 

"Oh, so my reputation does precede me! Yes, Sherlock and I met after he quite thoroughly _tongue_ -lashed a lecturer. We became _close_ confidants within weeks. He was a regular fixture in my rooms, indulging in all sorts of experimentation." 

John bristled a bit at the odd stressing of certain words by the young Baron. It could be a coincidence of accent, but it seemed likely it was otherwise. Perhaps he was prejudiced by Lady Adler's quite obvious innuendos. 

"Our favorite course of study was anatomy. Sherlock respected how utterly _thorough_ I was in my examinations." The slow burning smile this statement accompanied made a very lewd picture. "He also found my dabblings in chemistry intensely exciting. We both did." 

Nope, not prejudiced. John felt very annoyed. How could his brilliant, upright husband have anything to do with this Victor Trevor? John understood loneliness, he really did, but honestly, these so-called friends of his were repellant. It didn't even help that Sherlock admitted that their associations were best left in the past. 

"Of course, I understand now that our Sherlock has renounced all licentiousness for a much more ascetic lifestyle. And on the eve of his marriage, too. Pity, that, praying to God in bed rather than shouting for Him." 

Shocked, John straightened his back and reigned in the impulse to brain Victor Trevor with his cane. He tried his best to hide it, to walk away from a leering Victor Trevor and a stone-silent Sherlock Holmes. A demon, indeed. 

"If you will pardon me, I do believe Stamford is waving us over." John could only just force out the words, but not without showing his wounds. "Sherlock, do join us when you've finished speaking to your friend. Good day, Baron." 

John shook Sherlock's hand from his, disengaging from his elbow, and leaned heavily on his cane as he sidled through the crowd and the tiered seating. He refused to look back at his husband and his… _confidant_. He knew his face was scorched red by the fires of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually a case of someone dying after seeing a particularly shocking exhibition, the death later that evening being attributed to fright given the spectacular nature of the experiment. Also, the presenters at such things were often theatrical, sort of like stage performers. The more interesting their presentation, the more likely they would be granted a body to dissect and get job offers and patrons and the like.


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for this chapter and the next, trigger warnings apply for Victor's behavior... not so much the drugging, but the intent behind it

"Did you enjoy that, Victor?" Sherlock hissed as his husband stalked off. 

"Immensely." Victor gloated while toying with a gaudy ring on his right hand. 

"Juvenile." 

"On the contrary, dear Sherlock, very _adult_." Victor stepped closer. Sherlock tried to step away, but the press of people and the orientation of seats in the theater kept him closer than he wished. "Something in which you used to indulge. How sad and boring for you." 

Sherlock glanced across the room to where John was pointedly not looking at him. The man's face was still red and tight. He'd done something wrong again, though for once he thought he might understand what that was without being informed. 

"I must request that you leave John and me alone, Victor. I do not wish for you to be part of my life any longer. I don't understand how that isn't clear to you." 

"What is clear to me, dear fellow, is that you neither rushed to your husband's defense nor departed with him. What conclusions must we draw from that?" 

Sherlock didn't answer. Victor flustered him; well, really, everyone did in these sorts of situations. And he didn't know why he didn't raise a defense against Victor, aside from that he'd never really been able to do so. 

"You really ought to come by and see my latest experiments, Sherlock. I've no doubt your scientific curiosity would be thoroughly and most satisfactorily _aroused_." 

Victor's right hand wrapped around Sherlock's upper arm, pinching it sharply. No, not quite a pinch – a puncture. Sherlock felt his stomach drop and a bit of all-too-familiar warmth seep through his veins. He pulled his arm free, but it was too late. 

"I've been trying to concentrate one of our favorite antidotes to boredom. Poisons can be effective in such miniscule proportions; why not other physics and remedies? Shall we retire to my townhouse and measure the effects of my latest preparation?" 

"I have little choice, I see." Sherlock could already feel some of the effects of the drug: dizziness, pounding pulse, a certain indolence of spirit. 

"Well, we certainly want to study the effects in a controlled environment, do we not? How overwhelming the symptoms, the length of their endurance, with an especial focus on comparing quantity and quality with the previous responses we've recorded." 

"No," Sherlock said. "No, I will not let you force this… _congress_ , Victor. You must let me go." 

"Go, Sherlock? What, home with the enfeebled husband you've fettered yourself with? You've become domesticated, my beautiful, wild Sherlock." Sherlock jerked back when Victor raised his hand, but it only whispered down his cheek. The underside of the ring came into view for a brief second; a sharp point extended towards the wearer's palm. "It saddens me to the core to see you broken to bit. Unless, of course, it was my bridle and bit." 

The ringed hand grasped Sherlock's upper arm again, this time with more purpose. The pin bit through the fabric of his coat and shirt and into Sherlock's skin once again, delivering a headier dose of the drug. Victor took advantage of Sherlock's chemically-induced disorientation and began to guide him most forcibly towards the door. 

Sherlock's brain stuttered. He might have thought of a way to attract John's attention, or extricate himself from Victor's clawed grip, or even driven the drugged stickpin into Victor's own skin, rendering him more tractable and easier to escape. His magnificent mind could form none of these thoughts, however, barely processing a cacophony of jeering voices speaking in gibberish all around him and he stumbled out the door after a triumphant Victor Trevor.


	53. Chapter 53

Stamford nudged John as he took a seat next to him, shifting him from his humiliated reverie. John looked up and about as if the nudge had been directional instead of unintentional. When he did, he quite clearly saw Sherlock shuffling after Victor Trevor, being tugged along somewhat intently. Sherlock didn't appear to be resisting as such, but his movements were unsteady and graceless, two things Sherlock most definitely was not. 

At first glance, John thought Sherlock had simply decided to leave him, abandon him here with Stamford, dozens of aspiring doctors, and the corpse of a criminal. _He's leaving me_ was his precise thought, with the word 'leaving' quite open to interpretation. The thought caused a stupid little lump to rise in his throat. It was almost a relief to have the revision _He's being taken_ bubble up in his brain. _Sherlock needs me_. 

John pushed himself up with his cane just as Stamford had properly settled in beside him. The rounder man looked up at him in surprise. 

"They're just about to begin." 

"I apologize, Stamford. I must be off. We're on Baker Street. Do come 'round for tea sometime, won't you?" 

John moved away before Stamford could find his voice again and object. The crowd had begun to arrange themselves into their seats, moving down the steps against John. He focused on moving quickly and politely through the esteemed gentlemen, and very deliberately did not think about the possibility that he was wrong. The fear of being wrong, that Sherlock was going to laugh at John as he stumbled after Sherlock racing away with his lover, would have kept John humiliated in his seat. He could not take that chance, however. 

And if that supposition turned out to be true, John would rather not discover it under the watchful eyes of the theater full of inquisitive scientists and doctors. Likely enough of them had overheard Victor's injurious remarks and particularly that the normally loquacious Sherlock saying nothing in opposition. He did not need to add a tremendous row to the hospital gossip. 

John's quarry had reached the door quite before him and had moved far from view once John reached the outer hall. Waving away the porter's offer to retrieve his greatcoat, John impatiently demanded from him the direction of the last two gentlemen to exit. They had apparently abandoned their belongings as well and gone directly to the nearest outer door. 

John rushed as fast as he was able, praying that he'd not be too late. He'd have been, if Sherlock hadn't been afflicted with an utter inability to climb the step into the Baron's carriage. 

John blew out a breath of relief before intruding between Sherlock and Victor Trevor with the tip of his cane. 

"John," Sherlock breathed. John hoped he was actually as relieved as he sounded. 

"I'm afraid you'll have to decline whatever invitation the Baron has offered, Sherlock. We have an appointment tonight, you remember?" John hoped his voice wasn't as shaky as he felt it might be. 

Victor's glare was murderous. John met it with a quite adequate display of 'unhand my husband or I'll thwack you with the knob of my cane, you blighted todger.' 

Victor's face brightened suddenly, as if everything was going just the way he'd planned. 

"Oh, do let me offer my congratulations on your marriage, Doctor Watson." He reached forward to shake John's hand with one heavily-ringed hand. Sherlock took momentary control of his jelly legs to lunge forward and grasp one of Victor's hands. John saw him frantically pawing at a ring, which must have had a sharp edge on the setting since, after tossing the offending jewelry towards the gutter, Sherlock stared blankly at his bleeding hand. 

"Now, Sherlock, that was rude." Victor's voice was oh-so-playfully scolding. "I was just going to give John a gift, a little something for the honeymoon." 

"No," Sherlock croaked out. "John… home." 

"Have fun, Doctor Watson. I apologize that the delights of your evening will be so one-sided, but that one," he gestured at Sherlock, "is so utterly selfish." Victor pushed past and climbed into his carriage. 

John pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, bracing him enough to pull him away from the carriage wheels as it jerked forward. 

"Sherlock, are you alright? Have you become ill? You were fine this morning." John had a hard time examining Sherlock supporting half his weight as he was. 

Sherlock gestured with his bloody hand, a shallow scrape across his palm. John pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket. "Hold this." He couldn't tie the cloth around Sherlock's hand just yet, but if Sherlock could clutch it for a few minutes, it would at least slow the bleeding. 

"We need to get you back into the hospital." 

"No… John… home." 

"But if you're ill, Sherlock…" 

"No hospital. Please." 

He sounded so broken and weak that John wanted to simply overrule him, but he couldn't bear to do so. He glanced around, certain he wouldn’t be able to carry Sherlock far, not with only one firm leg between them. Fortunately, carriages for hire circled the hospital with some frequency, what with visitors, arrivals, and checkouts, and it was mere minutes before John was able to convince one to stop. 

"Looks like you're already where you ought to be, with that one there." 

"Baker Street, if you please," John said, ignoring the pointed comment. "Two-twenty-one." 

The driver gave him an assessing glance. "Not catching, is it?" 

"Just a bit too much to drink." 

The driver scowled, "No puking in my hack." 

"I'll make sure of it." 

The driver grunted; he's surely heard that lie before. Still, he gestured for them to embark, not offering to help John as he struggled to coax Sherlock into the hack. Still, it was finally done, though John was a bit out of breath by the time they were moving towards Baker Street. 

"Sherlock, open your eyes." John twisted in his seat to examine his listless husband. The first thing he did was secure the handkerchief around Sherlock's hand; he could wash and properly bandage it at home. "There is something very wrong with you." John pressed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead. His temperature seemed slightly elevated, perhaps, or maybe John's hands were just cold. He'd left his warm gloves in his greatcoat back at the hospital. 

When Sherlock obeyed, blinking his eyes slowly as he tried to focus, John leaned in close to check Sherlock's pupils. 

"Are you very sure you wouldn't rather be under observation in the hospital?" 

"No, John, please. Promise me." 

"Then you must tell me how long you've been feeling ill. It can't have gotten so bad, so quickly. I was only away from you for a few minutes." 

"Not ill." Sherlock waved his bandaged hand around as if that would mean anything to John. 

"Not ill? Something is clearly the matter. I think you're a bit warm, you can't focus…" 

"Drugged," Sherlock finally blurted. 

"Victor Trevor drugged you?" John was taken aback. "Do you know what he gave you? Is there an antidote?" Pain clenched within him. "Are you… will you… is it poison?" 

Sherlock patted John's leg awkwardly, nearly missing entirely in favor of the seat cushion. 

"Recreational," he slurred. "Had it before." 

"Had it before? Are you saying that you've done this to yourself purposely?" 

"Yes." With this, Sherlock wrapped his arms over his waist and slumped into the corner away from John, closing his eyes and looking for all the world like he was just going to take a little rest while the hack rocked over the cobblestones. He allowed John to slip his fingers over his wrist and count his pulse, but after that, John's worried hands fell away. 

"Is there anything I can do to help?" 

Sherlock's head waggled back and forth. "Run its course," he muttered. 

"I see. Can you at least tell me what effects I might expect to see?" 

Sherlock let out a deep sigh. 

"Lethargy, at first, loss of fine motor control. Second phase. Elevated body temperature." It clearly took a lot of effort for Sherlock to marshal his brain and tongue to simultaneously do his bidding. "Perspiration. Elevated heart rate. Heightened… skin sensitivity." That word alone took Sherlock three tries to pronounce. "Hallucination, fever dreams. Lowered inhibitions. Priapism." 

"Pria… Sherlock, are you saying that you've been dosed with an aphrodisiac?" 

"Yes." 

John fell silent, leaning back against the seat and directing his attention to the buildings they passed. Victor Trevor had dosed Sherlock with an aphrodisiac, a powerful one by the symptoms Sherlock listed. Victor Trevor had been trying to get Sherlock into his own carriage. There John's stomach clenched again. Sherlock had not wanted to go, though John wasn't certain if that made it better or worse. And Sherlock had taken this before. He'd even admitted it was on purpose. John tried to stop the images from coming, but he could not: Sherlock, half-undressed and draped over a chaise as the languor stole over him. Victor Trevor's head resting on Sherlock's thigh, perhaps, that burnished chestnut hair brushing against the fall of Sherlock's trousers. And then, when the more hedonistic symptoms emerged… John swallowed, knowing he was flushed and embarrassed. 

"How long will the symptoms persist?" he asked, trying to keep some sort of professional detachment. 

"Not sure. Experimental dose." Sherlock waved his hand again, the one with the handkerchief wrapped around it. John finally caught on. 

"His ring? Is that why you threw it into the street?" 

"Pin," Sherlock said sagely. "He was going to dose you, too." 

_I was just going to give John a gift, a little something for the honeymoon_ , John remembered. That would have made quite a memorable? spectacular? shocking? honeymoon. 

"Couldn’t let him. I don't want you that way, John."


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an awful author and I should be punished! I'm so sorry for the delays in posting lately! I've had a rough couple of weeks, and even now that I'm feeling much improved, I'm so tired I can hardly stand to keep my eyes open even when I manage to sit at the computer! So the following chapter was a bit torturous in many ways.
> 
> However, in spite of all that, here's hoping I manage to get a move on! Thank you to everyone who is keeping up with this, and especially for all the lovely comments! Particularly those after the last chapter (when I was giggling with vicious glee). I'm sorry I haven't responded to all of you personally (and really, there aren't SO many that I couldn't) but I'm just not quite up to it yet. Thank you, thank you, thank you :)

Matthews flew out of the doorway to help John assist Sherlock into the house, and John allowed him to do most of the work getting Sherlock up the stairs. Sherlock apparently regained some small amount of motor control – his loud protests echo down the stairwell long before John manages the stairs to the first floor. 

Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, his tight jacket only on one arm and Matthews has clearly given up on the fight, standing above Sherlock with a resigned demeanor. 

"It's alright, Matthews. Go downstairs and fetch a bowl of warm water, some flannels and a length of bandage, and some strong coffee. I'll see to it that Mr. Holmes is made more comfortable." 

Matthews gave an efficient nod and disappeared. The warm water and stack of clean cloth appeared within minutes. Sherlock's curled-up position exposed the back of his arm to John. Faint spots of blood marred the otherwise pristine fabric where Victor had jabbed him with his ring. 

"Sherlock, you've blood on your sleeve. Please let me finish removing your jacket so I can examine your wound." 

"Just leave me alone, John." 

"I will not just leave you alone. I need to clean away the blood on your arm and properly bandage your hand." 

"Go away!" Sherlock said. It would have sounded more forceful if Sherlock's voice hadn't been muffled by the sofa cushions. 

John only moved closer and pressed the backs of his fingers to Sherlock's neck just below his ear, checking for an increase in temperature. Slightly warm, perhaps, but he couldn’t judge for long; Sherlock shrugged him off. 

"Don't be stubborn. We need to get you comfortable and tucked in bed." 

"No. Bed is interminably dull." 

"You said you were familiar with this drug, Sherlock. Will you be able to function in any capacity until it wears off?" 

Sherlock didn't answer. 

"When was the last time you slept, anyway?" 

John didn't properly hear the response beyond its belligerent and petulant tone. 

"Well, then, you have little choice in the matter; since you cannot properly investigate or experiment, you may as well get some sleep. It will kill two birds; perhaps you will sleep through some of the symptoms of this drug as well as store up some sleep during the enforced down time." 

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock's voice was more than clear this time. "I don't wish to go to bed. I don't want you to try and soothe my temper or my wounds. You are not my nanny! Just go away and leave me to be wretched in peace!" 

"Sherlock Holmes! I will not allow you to quarrel with me over this. I am most certainly not your nanny, over whom I'm certain you ran roughshod throughout your childhood!" John stood to his full height and pulled out his Captain Watson voice, the one that could dictate orders over cannon and gun fire. "I am your husband and a doctor and you have been injured. You will allow me to treat your wounds as I see fit." 

Sherlock raised bleary eyes to his husband. But John was not finished. 

"You may insist on familiarity with this drug, but that does not mean that Victor Trevor did not purposely add something to his mix, or that the unmeasured dosage you received is not dangerous. I will be observing you throughout, just to be certain. And you will allow this, without complaint!" 

"But John…" 

"No, Sherlock, not another word." John's voice softened, though. "I will concede to allow you privacy as you suffer certain indignities." John willed himself not to flush thinking of Sherlock handling certain matters on his own. "But the fact remains that this is very serious and you must let me handle it." 

Sherlock was too weary from the drug to glare back to the height of his ability and John got his way. Sherlock lifted his scratched hand and held it palm up towards his husband with as much haughtiness as he could muster. It was endearingly pathetic. 

"Sit up, then, get your jacket off. I know you've got other punctures on your upper arm." 

Sherlock obeyed, his lips pressed tightly together and twisted into a scowl. John helped him tug the tight sleeve off his arm and laid the coat over the arm of the sofa. 

"Shirt, too." It only took a moment for Sherlock to offer up his throat with a huff; his unusually clumsy fingers weren't up to the task of unknotting his cravat. John accomplished this with brisk efficiency, also unbuttoning Sherlock's waistcoat to avoid getting any of Sherlock's blood on the material; his stark white neck cloth had already been marred. 

Sherlock slipped first his waistcoat, then his braces off his shoulders and, with a few tugs, his shirt was drawn over his head and fluttered to the floor. His chest and throat were pale as ivory, his shoulders broader than they appeared in the round-shouldered fashion of the day. John would have considered how much nicer disrobing Sherlock could be, baring that white throat to his lips, running his hands down that marble chest, but the thought broke his heart a little. He schooled his thoughts and his expression to his profession. 

"Were your previous experiences with this drug intravenous?" 

Sherlock nodded once, roughly, baring the crook of his arm where the skin was littered with tiny round scars. John examined their placement relative to the pale blue veins running below. He twisted Sherlock's arm gently, comparing the two pin pricks from the current dosage. 

"The dose was delivered into the muscle, Sherlock, instead of the vein. The symptoms may last longer than you're used to as the chemicals slowly leach out of the tissue, though perhaps they will be less severe as well. Though with three doses, it could be quite the opposite." 

Sherlock didn't comment, just turned his head to the side and let John examine him as he must. 

The punctures on Sherlock's upper arm could wait. They were deep but had already stopped bleeding and there was little that could be done. John dampened one cloth, set it aside, letting a second soak in the bowl of warm water. He took Sherlock's hand in his and peeled away the handkerchief. It stuck in one spot where the blood had dried, but Sherlock didn't even wince. He stared icily at the fireplace. John bathed away the blood so he could judge the depth of the cut. 

"You won't need any stitches," he decided once the scratch was bared. "We'll have to watch for infection, especially with the sorts of things you get your hands into, but it should heal just fine on its own." 

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't speak even when Matthews brought a tray into the room with a pot of coffee, though his nose twitched at the warm smell of the roast beans. 

"Bring that to Mr. Holmes' room," John ordered. Matthews jumped a little; John still had a touch of the Captain Watson in him. "Then come back down and help Mr. Holmes to bed." 

"Yes, sir, of course, sir." The tray rattled a bit as Matthews moved instantly to obey. John sighed a bit and wrapped Sherlock's hand in a length of bandage. Once that was taken care of, he took the damp cloth he'd set aside and wiped away the blood crusted on the back of Sherlock's arm. 

"It will be difficult to judge whether infection has taken hold, since you indicated fever as an effect of the drug. I shall have to examine the scratch from time to time to make sure it isn't red or swollen. If it begins to pain you unusually, do tell me." 

Sherlock tossed his head, presumably in acquiescence, though John couldn't be sure. He didn't press the issue, however. When Matthews returned to the sitting room, hovering beside the sofa, Sherlock heaved himself up using his good hand and clearly gathered all his self-control to walk to the stairs to his room unassisted. Once there, he made use of the wall to prop himself up and Matthews followed close behind with care, but he staggered up under his own power. 

John followed slowly behind, arriving at the bedroom door in time to see Matthews, having already removed Sherlock's footwear, assisting with the buttons of his falls. Sherlock's long, bare back was towards the door as he perched indolently on the far edge of his bed. His dark hair curled just slightly about the nape of his neck. It looked soft. John wanted to run his fingers through it, and down that straight spine. 

John had to scold himself, remind himself that there was no point in looking. The pang remained; however, he busied his thoughts. John realized he'd never seen Sherlock's room before, though Sherlock had visited his. It was Spartan in nature, kept tidy by Matthews and devoid even of books as if Sherlock only ever dressed and undressed in there. John hadn't witnessed Sherlock approaching the room with the intention of sleeping yet. 

It was slightly smaller than John's, with no sitting area by the fireplace. The wardrobe was more austere and the screen in the corner merely functional, where John's furniture was elegant and expensive. Had Sherlock deliberately given John the better room, or did he just care so little for his surroundings that he decorated for himself perfunctorily? 

Matthews was worth every penny of his pay, however, for he soon had Sherlock in nothing but his drawers, reversed his step quickly when Sherlock refused a nightshirt with a shake of his head, and had the bed turned down before John could even fully take in the room. Sherlock slid under the covers, arms curled around his pillow in such a way that his back to his waist was stretched. 

"You should have a little coffee, Sherlock, or I can send for tea if you prefer." At the negative-sounding grunt from the depths of a feather pillow, John sighed. "You really should try to eat or drink a little something. No? Very well. Matthews, do bring up the chair from my sitting room if you can, and the book from my nightstand. I'll be spending the foreseeable hours observing Mr. Holmes." 

"Yes, sir, of course, sir." 

John stood by the bedside being ignored until Matthews had ever-so-carefully hauled the wingback armchair from John's bedroom up the stairs step by step and placed it a few feet from the bed. Then he sat and was ignored. 

John drank his coffee. Sherlock's shoulders moved with every breath, or he would have felt the need to check his vitals continuously. 

"If you really must remain, you will take notes," Sherlock said after long silent minutes. 

"Pardon?" 

"Notes, John, observations on my condition, details of my vital signs. This is an experimental dosage of an unknown strength of drug. It would be useful to compare the series of effects in comparison to previous reactions to doses I've recorded. That is to say, I've had recorded. It is a trifle difficult to retain a scientific demeanor throughout the process. I shall dictate to you as I am able and you will record your observations ever quarter hour as I am not." 

"Agreed," John replied, if only because then he'd be allowed to check Sherlock's vitals regularly without receiving complaint. "You have notes on previous experiments with this drug?" 

Sherlock muttered an affirmation. 

"Might I see them?" 

"No, not as of yet. It might skew the data." 

Of course. 

John settled in with a portable writing table Sherlock demanded Matthews retrieve from the first floor sitting room, listing the times (estimated to the best of his recollection) and details of the beginnings of Sherlock's unexpected dosing. Sherlock dictated a few things he wanted recorded as well. 

After the first interval, Sherlock intoned, "Bored," when John takes his pulse. John notes that it has sped up noticeably from the last time and Sherlock must be aware of it. 

"Would you like me to read aloud? It might distract you a while." 

"Dull," he sulks, but doesn't offer any further objection. John starts over from the beginning of the travelogue Matthews retrieved from his bedside table. 

When two more intervals have passed, and the early winter dusk began to fall, John noted Sherlock's skin glowing in the lamplight. His temperature had definitely increased, beads of sweat popping up across his forehead. Matthews brought a pitcher of fresh, cool water into the dim room, and John poured a bit of it into the washbasin he set on the nightstand beside Sherlock's bed. John swept back Sherlock's dark curls, pressing a cool, wet cloth against his skin. Sherlock kept his eyes closed until John required them open to examine the fever-bright orbs, but allowed John's tender ministrations. If he appreciated the cool water on his brow, the back of his neck, his bare chest, however, he said nothing. He flinched, though, when John's hands approached the sheets at his waist, so John quite deliberately avoided anything lower. When Sherlock felt the need to record his full reaction to the drug, he would. 

John made sure to lift the dressings on Sherlock's hand to examine the scratch every so often, but it showed no sign of inflammation or redness, nor did gentle probing of the two punctures reveal any swelling. He tried to keep his worry in check, telling himself that it was just the effect of a drug, not an illness that would take Sherlock from him. It would be over soon, no more than a day, surely, and it was nothing like the illness that John himself had suffered for weeks after his injury. 

He offered food and drink every time he rose from his chair, thankful when Sherlock finally accepted water. He was certain there was at least a few minutes where Sherlock had dozed off, though he didn't admit it when asked. 

"It feels like insects are crawling all over my skin," Sherlock voiced for the sake of the notes. John paused, pen in hand. 

"Is it worse when I rub the wet cloth on your skin?" 

"No," Sherlock said reluctantly. "It… it's almost too good. Like it's the only cure against the incessant need." 

He didn’t speak, face buried in his pillow, for the next several intervals. John, in return, was a little extra generous in the application of his cool, damp cloth against Sherlock's sweaty neck and back. 

When Sherlock did finally speak, it was in response to a sound from downstairs. The knocker. Sherlock simply said, "Mycroft," in an aggrieved tone. 

"I'll go downstairs, tell him you're not available." 

"He's not here to see me, anyway, John." 

John gave Sherlock's flushed skin one last, soothing wipe-down. 

"I'll be back soon." 

"Knock." 

John couldn't help but flicker his eyes downward. He'd seen Sherlock's torso bared to the waist despite the cool air of the room, but he'd allowed Sherlock a certain amount of dignity. It was impossible not to realize that Sherlock had become aroused since the last interval, and while John had recorded so in his notes, he hadn't spoken aloud of Sherlock's discomfort. 

So when he left Sherlock a clean, dry cloth within arm's reach, he did so without comment. 

"I'll give you some time before I check in on you again. Try to rest."


	55. Chapter 55

"Lord Sherrinford. I most certainly did not expect you." 

John found the tall aristocrat standing in their public parlor, another room John hadn't really stepped into since his marriage. He really ought to take some time to explore his own house. 

"I did tell you once that I worry about my brother, Captain Watson. When he is injured, I will, of course, take the time to inquire about his health." 

"How did you know..?" 

Lord Sherrinford merely raised one pale auburn eyebrow. 

"Of course, what am I thinking?" John shuffled forward, gesturing for Lord Sherrinford to sit with the tip of his cane. "The servants are all in your employ." 

"So, Sherlock's condition?" Lord Sherrinford prompted when John had settled into a chair of his own. 

"He's uncomfortable." John was nearly as uncomfortable trying to decide how to answer Lord Sherrinford's question. It was a delicate subject. "Victor Trevor managed to inject a dose of one of his serums into Sherlock at St. Bart's this afternoon." 

"Yes, one of his aphrodisiacs, I heard. One Sherlock was quite enamored of at one time." Lord Sherrinford shook his head slowly. "Sherlock is not reveling in his relapse? I suppose that is a good sign. And yourself?" The question came across so innocent, until John deciphered Lord Sherrinford's meaning. 

"And myself, what?" John snapped. "If this is the nature of your concern for your brother, you can…" 

"Pax, Captain Watson," Lord Sherrinford interrupted smoothly. "I apologize for my base curiosity." 

"It's none of your fucking business," John gritted out. 

"Please do forgive me, Captain Watson. I so rarely deal with honorable men, particularly in Sherlock's life." 

Lord Sherrinford's calm, smarmy voice just grated on John's nerves. Of all the devils to be cursed with as brother-in-law, he had to be saddled with a politician. John clutched the handle of his cane until his fingers ached. 

"Forgiven." That was an incredibly difficult word to say. John knew very well that it was his reaction to the question, not his answer that was the test Lord Sherrinford had given him. Nothing the man did was not completely deliberate, of that John was sure. 

"Thank you. In return, you may ask what you wish of me. I will endeavor to be honest and forthright." Lord Sherrinford leaned back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other, giving the impression of a man comfortable and at his leisure. 

"That's quite a boon to grant, Lord Sherrinford." Not that John felt he could trust it, but he'd take what he could get. 

"Quite. My time is limited, Captain Watson." 

John cleared his throat, stalling as he considered what to ask first. 

"He mentioned he was familiar with the drug he was given. He used to ingest it often?" 

Lord Sherrinford's mouth tightened. "For a time, I thought him utterly lost. Of course, that was only one reason why I disapproved of Victor Trevor." 

"And the other reasons?" 

"Captain Watson, are you enticing me to indulge in gossip?" Lord Sherrinford's tone was playful, but had sharp edges. 

"I am merely trying to ascertain the danger to my husband, your brother. For all I know, he sought Sherlock out today. I am certain he took advantage of their proximity to use a previously prepared dose of a strong aphrodisiac, inject him with it, and attempt to abduct him. I do need to know what else I may expect from the man, now that this attempt has been partially thwarted." 

Lord Sherrinford folded his hands in his lap and stared at them awhile. When he spoke, he clearly chose his words very carefully. 

"Victor Trevor is accorded the privileges of a foreign dignitary on our soil, Captain Watson. His obsession with my brother notwithstanding, he can be punished for very little except outright murder. However, given his prowess as a chemist, it is unlikely that any suspicions on that line would ever be proven. They certainly haven't been in the past." 

"The past?" Lord Sherrinford could have meant that certain types of poisons were quite difficult to detect, but John didn't get that impression. His stomach clenched. 

"His father died at quite a convenient time, Captain Watson. Young Victor had achieved his majority and the Baron's legal marriage to Trevor's mother had come to his attention, rendering Victor a legitimate heir. With that said, no accusation of foul play has ever been more than whispered. Even Sherlock did not suspect at the time." 

"Sherlock was visiting there when Victor's father died." Sherlock had shared at least that much with John. 

Lord Sherrinford inclined his head. "Of course, I have no jurisdiction over a crime that has taken place in another sovereign nation, but the events led me to keep a much closer eye on the relationship between Victor and my brother. It progressed very quickly to dangerous levels. Sherlock was never prone to excess, as such, but his curiosity knows no bounds. And Victor promised him every sort of indulgence, every sort of pleasure – always a new experience, more debauched and spellbinding than the last. Intoxicating substances such as the aphrodisiac Victor created, the opium pipe, women, men, often several at once, all of these were carefully contrived to keep Sherlock intrigued." 

John felt a bit deflated hearing all this so clearly. He'd begun to suspect when he'd met Victor this afternoon, more so when Sherlock confessed he'd taken an aphrodisiac before, but knowing how utterly Sherlock had been corrupted by Victor was disheartening. 

"To this day, I do not know what happened to make Sherlock put all that aside." Lord Sherrinford still sounded a bit astonished. 

"I thought you had put a stop to it, honestly," John replied weakly. "Locked him in his room until he saw sense or something." 

"If anything, my interference made it worse. No, Sherlock walked away from Victor one morning, quite on his own. Victor seemed certain he'd be back, but he hasn't voluntarily entered that man's presence in the year since." 

"Has Victor been pursuing him all that time?" 

"Not at first. He traveled back to his home in Darmstadt, stayed quite out of the way for several months. It wasn't until he returned to England in the summer that I started making inquiries for a husband on Sherlock's behalf." 

"I see." It was all John could find to say though a thousand things ran through his head. _Why couldn't you be bothered to assassinate Victor Trevor long before now? Would it be an international incident if it looked like an accident? Bar him from the country? What reason could one give for that? There is no proof, no legal argument even should Sherlock testify about the attempted abduction, and who would believe him about the drugs? Bribery? Hardly effective against someone as wealthy as the Baron. Blackmail? Doubtful that depraved bastard cared enough over any facet of his reputation to succumb to blackmail. Back 'round to assassination then, as simple reason would never work with a madman._

"I should let you get back to Sherlock, then." Lord Sherrinford rose from his chair. John rose as well, automatically, though still wedged deep into his own thoughts. "Do send word if anything unexpected happens." 

"Of course, Lord Sherrinford." 

"And it seems unnecessary to say, but don't eat or drink anything in the presence of Victor Trevor, Captain Watson. He does not seem to wish Sherlock permanent harm, but I highly doubt that concern extends to you. Goodnight." 

Lord Sherrinford exited the room and let himself out the front door. Matthews was nowhere in sight, though Mrs. Hudson was lingering in the hall. 

"Shall I send up some supper, Captain Watson? You must be hungry, even if Sherlock is not." 

John wasn't hungry, either, not now, but he allowed a tray might be sent upstairs. The coffee he'd drunk earlier felt bitter and roiled in his stomach. He should have sent for tea, something calming. He began to wearily trudge up the two flights of stairs to Sherlock's room, leaning heavily on his cane.


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where we earn our Mature rating, folks! "Clean" Johnlock indeed. I said INDEED, sir!! :)
> 
> I almost didn't want to be done writing this chapter because it makes me squee! On the other hand, I had to print it out and cut it apart and tape it back together to get it right, which is crazy. So I guess I'm glad, then! :) 
> 
> Enjoy. Don't hate me. :)
> 
> Addendum: someone pointed out my verb tenses were a mess... and lo and behold, they totally were! And there were a couple of really odd typos, too. I blame goblins. Hopefully they are mostly straightened out now.

Sherlock gripped himself firmly once John's footsteps down the stairs ceased to be audible. His hand worked his cock quite efficiently, taking only minutes to relieve the pressure that had built up. Momentarily, the pleasure whited out his mind. When his eyes blinked open again, Sherlock felt more ireful than sated. He cleaned himself with the soft cloth John had left for him then threw it across the room. That Mycroft was downstairs proved Matthews was a well-paid minion of Mycroft's, though that was no surprise. Let Matthews find the defiled cloth in the morning. 

Previously, Sherlock had always felt much more amiable on the drug – of course, he had never deliberately denied himself pleasure while imbibing, either. The effects of abstinence were insufferable. However, the thought of indulging was inconceivable. 

So, intermittent self-release was clearly the only course of action. _This is infuriating, intolerable, unforgivable,_ Sherlock seethed. The aftereffect of climax in his condition was a blessed moment of clarity, a brief respite before the agonizing desire ramped up again. The cold lucidity wouldn't last long, however, and in between, he'd soon begin to deteriorate into little more than a mindless beast. 

This was the very reason Sherlock had deliberately shunned Victor and his drug – the constant arousal, the senseless drive of lust, the glee Victor had displayed when preparing the injection. Sherlock had seen himself becoming little better than an animal, consumed by a maelstrom of carnal lust and rutting between any set of legs Victor opened before him. It had taken too long to recognize Victor's depraved divinity over Sherlock, the puppet for pleasure. He'd been so stupid. 

But John, John tended to him, stubbornly ignoring every shout, every insult, every declaration that Sherlock wanted to be left alone. He didn't see this loss of control as entertainment or a sign of Sherlock's weakness. He understood how this is an attack – how it had always been an attack even when it was self-inflicted. And most importantly, he was not taking advantage. 

Mycroft, his own brother, would have simply locked a couple of prostitutes in the room and let Sherlock shout abuse at them or indulge as he saw fit. He would not have been caring. He would have been disappointed in Sherlock's failings. He was likely downstairs voicing his disapproval this very minute. 

Why was John behaving as he was? Concerned. Doting, even. Sherlock pondered John's own recent illness. Clearly he recalled his own need for comfort in his distress, appreciated being cossetted, cared for. Still, it seemed a trifle unlikely; John had burst out in a temper when Sherlock had pandered to John's bad leg too much. So what was the reason? 

And John was being so insufferably kind. Really, it was the most horrid thing. 

But John's presence was comforting; it was the only reason Sherlock had not yet gone mad. John's gentle voice distracted him from the burning in his veins, the heartbeat that seemed to throb outside of his body, the desperate feeling of dozens of hands all over his body. The cool water John bathed him with eased the feverish symptoms, if only slightly, and made Sherlock feel warm in an entirely other way. 

And why was he thinking about John anyway? It was unlike Sherlock for his thoughts to be consumed by another person – not a criminal or a puzzle, that is. 

_It's the drug, it's all the drug_ , Sherlock tried to convince himself. He wasn't really enamored of John. He didn't really require John to smile at him, to assist him, to work by his side, to listen to his deductions. He certainly didn't want invite the man to his bed, rut with him insensibly, hear his moans and gasps of pleasure, hear that soothing voice crack when panting, " _Sherlock_." No, he didn't want that at all; he needed it. 

Sherlock heard John's footsteps pause outside the door to his room. John was apparently listening since the pause between his final footfall and his soft rap at the door was more than generous. 

"It's fine, John." Sherlock was in his finest sulk. Not only was he stuck in bed, useless and unable to focus on anything but the sensations fogging his body, but he was embarrassed. He was never embarrassed. Annoyed, yes. Indignant, wrathful, incensed, even, but not embarrassed. 

John walked into the room, moving first to the fireplace where he shifted the coals around. The firelight haloed him from Sherlock's perspective. He had removed his jacket while he was gone, left it in his room with Matthews most likely, and now exposed his shirt sleeves and his cream and gold waistcoat to Sherlock's hungry eyes. The winking golden threads reminded Sherlock of John's hair, fair and glinting in the sun. Sherlock saw himself bracing John against the wall, the man glowing in front of him like an idol. He knelt behind him, worshipping him. He could almost feel John's firm arse in his hands. He could feel the curve of it against his cheek as Sherlock poked his nose underneath that waistcoat to snuffle at the small of his back. 

Sherlock blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. The vision faded away and John stood there with a rather worried expression. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured. "Hallucinations starting." 

John hid the worried crease of his brow, ducking his head, and moved to the desk to write this down very carefully. 

"What did you see?" 

"Irrelevant," Sherlock answered. 

John did not respond. He carefully checked Sherlock's temperature with his hand before laying the cool cloth on Sherlock's forehead out of their established time frame. Sherlock didn't argue. 

Sherlock went over the hundreds of details of the found and missing people in his head, trying to keep his mind occupied, going over and over each detail of the body parts being strewn so deliberately along the Thames, until the symptoms became too much. Then he tried cataloguing each symptom and its intensity, dictating to John a scale of numbers which John dutifully recorded at the little writing desk. Hopefully his observations wouldn't be a hopeless jumble by morning, the ranting of a madman. 

He ignored the needs of his body as much as possible, trying not to writhe against the sheets to pacify his over-sensitive skin, trying not to feel the discomfort, nor respond to the soothing pleasure of John's repeated cool bathing of his forehead, neck and shoulders. 

John read aloud for a while, and that was pleasant, when Sherlock could not direct his own mind anymore. He could focus on that soft voice, the delighted hum that he added when something was amusing or ridiculous. But there came a point in the night when even that was too much and the innocuous words seemed to float over his skin and the voice caressed him, blew softly in his ear, entered the most vulnerable parts of him. He tried to beg John to stop, to be quiet, to leave him to his sensual misery, but he wasn't sure if John heard him or if he'd just been babbling and moaning. 

Sherlock wanted John in here with him, except that he didn't. Really, his mind was so horribly abuzz, how could he know what he wanted? John gave Sherlock periods of privacy once an hour, discreet even in the leaving of a small jar of silky lotion on Sherlock's bedside table. Sherlock missed his calm presence when he was gone. Still, he wouldn't meet eyes with John when he returned, ashamed in his lucidity. They did not speak of what happened in the interim. 

Sherlock dozed for a short while sometime after the downstairs clock struck eleven, and when he woke, he demanded of John, "Have you been checking every fifteen minutes, John?" 

"I let you sleep. It seemed to… disturb you if I touched you too much. You need to rest." 

John laid a cool hand on Sherlock's forehead again before bathing away the heat and sweat. Despite the sweat, he felt dry, so dry, like every drop of liquid was being forced from his body. John made him drink each time he checked his pulse, but Sherlock imagined he would have to take a bath and let every inch of his skin drink in the water from the tub before he'd be satiated from his thirst. 

"I'm awake now." Sherlock imperiously held out his arm for John to take his pulse. When John had recorded his results and checked Sherlock's pupils with the aid of a lamp, he bathed Sherlock's forehead with fresh, cool water which Matthews must have brought up while Sherlock was asleep. The radiating chill and clean scent overwhelmed Sherlock's senses for a second. If he reacted outside his own head, though, John showed no sign of it. He merely wiped the sweat from Sherlock's face and neck and replaced Sherlock's damp, flat pillow with a cool, fresh one. John's pillow. Sherlock buried his face in it and breathed in the scent of his husband. He wanted nothing more than to do the same to John himself. 

Sherlock tugged the sheet loose from the other covers and rolled himself up in it. The fabric pulled tight against his skin – if he shut his eyes and let his mind truly wander, he could imagine it was another body pressed against his. John's. No real point fighting it, though he still tried. 

His fevered, drugged mind took hold of the fantasy and John was right there next to him. Had Sherlock fallen asleep and woken to find John taking a well-deserved nap in his bed? No, when Sherlock opened his eyes, he saw two of him. Hallucination, then. John the doctor had fallen asleep in the chair at Sherlock's bedside, fully dressed with his robe wrapped over his waistcoat and shirt sleeves; he'd donned the robe as the night chilled. John the lover was in Sherlock's bed, bare and smiling. He pressed against Sherlock's back, arm around Sherlock's chest holding him tight, giving kisses and little nips on the back of Sherlock's neck. 

Each little touch sent sparks through Sherlock's body. There was no mind now, no thoughts to interrupt the pure feeling. John was pressed up to him; John was kissing him; John's hand was stroking over his chest, his belly, lower and there was only John. Sherlock turned to John, unable to resist kissing that clever mouth, tasting him, swallowing the other man's moans and whimpers of pleasure. 

Sherlock touched John like he could never touch him enough. His hands skimmed over bare skin, firm muscle, scars, yes, even the scars on his leg. _Beautiful, so beautiful._ But John's eyes were the most captivating. Pale blue irises surrounded open, dark pupils. They were crinkled at the corners from marching in the sun and from general good humor. John's eyes fluttered closed when Sherlock kissed him, opened to follow Sherlock as he moved to kiss John's neck, shoulder, chest. 

Sherlock pushed him flat against the bed, and John accepted Sherlock's weight above him. Their heated fumblings pushed Sherlock's drawers down over his hips; once freed, Sherlock pressed his erect cock against John's. John's moan of pleasure brushed against him like a sultry summer breeze. 

John's thighs rose around Sherlock's hips as he thrust down against John. Splayed beneath him, wrecked with pleasure, whimpering – John was as gorgeous a creature as Sherlock had ever seen. He needed him, needed all of him, needed to be inside of him. Sherlock abandoned his desperate movements to slip a finger into John, then two. John urged him to hurry; he was as impassioned and frantic as Sherlock. Sherlock eased inside with no more lubricant than was provided by his pre-come. John didn't seem to mind. He implored Sherlock to move, that he couldn't hold off, that he needed Sherlock. 

Sherlock needed John, too. And now he had him. 

John's hard cock rubbed between their bellies as Sherlock rocked into him. Sherlock breathed hard against John's skin, covering him so close and tight that he finally understood the 'beast with two backs.' They were one being together, writhing and grunting and moaning, but most importantly, _one_. 

It ended too quickly, though the climax shuddered through Sherlock for long moments until he thought he wouldn't be able to stand another wave. 

"John, John," Sherlock cried out, rutting against the rumpled sheets. The empty sheets. The lover John had disappeared and the doctor John was beside the bed to comfort him. 

"Shh, I'm here, I'm right here." John must have woken from Sherlock's exclamations of passion. He was warm and sleep-rumpled, but he stood by the side of the bed quickly. He soothed Sherlock with a cool wet cloth on his forehead, his neck, his chest. What Sherlock wouldn’t give for that same treatment by John's lips, but he can't have that. His breathing calmed as John bathed him, stroked light fingers over his brow and along the delicate skin beneath his eyes to judge his temperature – still elevated, but improved. Hopefully, the drug's effects would soon abate. 

John untangled the sheet from Sherlock, stripped him of the linen drawers he'd managed to wear the entire night. He cleaned Sherlock emissions most professionally and Sherlock lay still, unable to assist or resist. Then John covered Sherlock with a clean, dry sheet and a thin quilt and sat down, eyes firmly on the pages on the writing desk. 

Reality came to Sherlock as he surfaced from the fever-dream. He rolled over, facing away from John's patience and kindness. Knowing John, feeling him wrapped around him, hot and welcoming, had been so gut-wrenchingly real. He wanted John, every bit of John, but he doesn't want this hormone-driven, lust-addled life. He'd put it all aside, filled himself with the purity of the work. The work had been enough, until John. Now it would never be enough. 

_Despair._


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay!

A faint knock at the door woke Sherlock. The sun was beating against the drawn curtains; it was an unusually sunny day for this time of year in London. A strong wind rattled the shutters just as Sherlock noted that there must be one to rid the city of the ever-hanging fog and smoke. 

John slept on, oblivious to the sun and the visitor at the door. He was going to be sore and stiff when he awoke, having slept in the chair all night. He had his robe on and his feet propped up on the edge of Sherlock's bed. At some point, John had found a blanket as well, or Matthews had draped one over him. Despite his uncomfortable position, he was sleeping peacefully. 

Sherlock wrapped himself in his clean sheet and went to the door to keep Matthews from rapping again and waking John. Matthews looked none the worse this morning for likely having been awake as late as John or later, ready to assist if needed or run any errand. Sherlock made a shushing gesture and stepped into the hall. 

"Mr. Lestrade is downstairs, sir. He says it's more than urgent." 

Sherlock ignored Matthews' surprised, "Sir! Your clothes, Mr. Holmes!" and flew down the two flights of stairs in nothing but his improvised toga. 

Lestrade was in the public parlor waiting, pacing to be more precise. He wasn't taken aback by Sherlock's dishabille, but intensely worried. 

"Did another note arrive?" 

"That's not why I'm here, but yes." Lestrade handed Sherlock the folded and sealed sheet of paper. Sherlock wasted not a second before he broke the seal and read the contents.

 _The three I freed cannot tell tales._

_You won't catch me before another ship sails._

"What does it say?" 

Sherlock wordlessly handed over the paper. He glared at Lestrade when the runner snorted, but Lestrade was not amused. 

"It's right, Holmes. We've found at least eight bodies this morning, torsos, vivisected. Lord Almighty, was that another whistle?" Lestrade rubbed his hand through his hair. "The watchmen are frantic this morning. It's one thing for a suicide or two to wash up, or a few frozen vagrants in the dead of winter, but this… this is…" Lestrade cut off. 

"No time to waste, Lestrade. Where have they been finding the bodies?" Before Lestrade could respond, Sherlock called out the doorway, "Matthews, clothes!" 

"Three were found on the stairs to the Thames, much like the others, and one was propped up against a receiving station, but no one saw anything until the watch walked by at the six o'clock mark. The others have been found in busy places. I've every constable and runner I can contact searching for witnesses, but it'll be hours before we have anything useful along that line." 

"I hope your colleagues have been keeping detailed notes on which body was found when and where." 

"We're doing our level best, Holmes, to keep everything in proper order." 

"And the bodies are being transported to a central location?" 

"Bart's. If we run out of slabs, there are surgical theaters." Sherlock nodded swiftly, finding relief that his mind seemed to be functioning properly this morning. He would have an immense amount of data to categorize today and he couldn't waste any more time on inconvenient bodily functions. 

When Matthews appeared with a stack of clean clothing, Sherlock unwrapped his sheet and pulled the billowy shirt over his head and the drawers up over his bum with haste. 

Seeing nothing he hadn't seen before dealing with Holmes, Lestrade exited the parlor calmly and stood in the hall. 

"Oh, good morning, Dr. Watson." 

Sherlock paused, almost flinched. He quite deliberately pulled on his trousers and focused on tucking his shirt in. Matthews fussed with his braces. 

John made his way slowly down the steps. "Good morning, Mr. Lestrade. I take it there has been some progress in the case?" 

"I'll let your husband fill you in on the way to Bart's. Sherlock will have need of your medical expertise, I imagine, with the sheer number of bodies turning up." 

Sherlock swatted Matthews away from his neck cloth and tied it haphazardly himself while entering the hall. 

"I will need to examine every body personally, Lestrade." 

"Of course, Holmes. I'll make sure they're kept in state as much as possible. Gentlemen." Lestrade ducked his head in adieu and flew out the door, his coat tails flapping behind. 

Sherlock was all aflutter, with Matthews following in his wake trying to finish dressing him. 

"I must fetch some of my surgical equipment from upstairs. No, no, Matthews, I'll get them. It'll take longer to explain what I want." Sherlock lunged up half the staircase, but John shifted minutely to block his ascent further. 

"How are you feeling this morning?" 

"Fine, fine! Move aside! There's no time to waste. I'm sure evidence has been lost simply because I overslept." 

Sherlock moved to the side, but John caught his face with his hands. Sherlock was still two steps below John, putting John a head higher than him for once. Those hands touched his neck, his face, his forehead, stroked his cheek. For a brief second, Sherlock enjoyed the warmth and comfort of those tender hands before jerking out of John's gaze and reach and retreating down one step. 

"I'm fine, John! The drug has fully metabolized." He wouldn't look at John; his face flamed anyway. 

"Very well, Sherlock. But if you feel the least bit odd or ill, tell me." John didn't quite look like he believed him, but he seemed satisfied enough with his brief examination. 

"I _will,_ John. Now let me pass. I've got to find the equipment I'll need to bring along to Bart's." 

John shifted aside to let Sherlock bound by. 

"When you're finished chasing after Sherlock, I'll be needing a change of clothes as well, Matthews." 

"Yes, sir." 

Sherlock was heading back down the stairs before John had crested the first floor landing. 

"I have no time for your leg this morning, John, so you'll have to catch up." 

John's voice was hollow as he responded, but Sherlock did not register the change as he pulled on his greatcoat at the foot of the stairs. 

"Do you even wish for me to go to Bart's?" 

"I need an assistant, John, or I may well throttle Anderson by the end of the day!" 

Sherlock was out the door before John could say another word, leaving him behind yet again.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Case-related morgue stuff.. tried not to be too graphic :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random trivia!
> 
> Modern embalming methods did not fully develop until just preceeding the American Civil War, though various successful (read, deadly poisonous to medical students) methods existed prior, as well as processes like mummification and taxidermy. The "father of American embalming" is named Thomas Holmes (b. 1817).
> 
> Also, the Royal Humane Society set up "receiving stations" along the Thames and other bodies of water to help rescue drowning victims (whether accidental or self-inflicted). The attendants were trained in resuscitation methods.
> 
> Told you, I do too much research :)

When John arrived at the morgue at St. Bart's hospital less than a half hour behind Sherlock, he was surprised by the crush of people in the morgue itself, in the hall, bustling back and forth outside. What he wasn't surprised by was Sherlock's bellow for every unnecessary personage to immediately exit the room so he could think. 

John hated that this made him hesitate about going in. Yesterday, last night, had been a disaster. John had been able to put aside Sherlock's blunt rejection of him due to medical necessity and common decency, but in the daylight, he felt awkward. Sherlock had made himself clear. And this morning on the stairs, Sherlock didn't even want John touching him long enough to check his temperature, much less the bruising on his neck from being strangled. 

John wasn't sure quite what Sherlock wanted him to be. He seemed amiable enough to John's company, had spent whole days taking him around Town. John would even go so far as to say that they seemed very well suited for each other. But Sherlock judged him wanting in some way, and that grieved John more than he wanted to admit. 

_Really, John, you're too damn sensitive where Sherlock is concerned_ , he scolded himself. _What happened to patience and learning where you two fit in each other's lives? You haven't even been married a week yet._ He needed to try and be happy providing assistance and companionship if that was all Sherlock wanted. _Just be near him, just care for him. Be his friend._

_And maybe one day your heart will stop jumping at the sound of Sherlock's voice or the sight of his lips._

John took a deep breath, straightened his back, and pushed against the tide of people exiting the morgue. Lestrade had said something about a quantity of bodies, and Sherlock had acquiesced that he would need an assistant. There was no time for this self-pity and wallowing. No time for longing and whinging. 

John stood to one side of the door, watching for Sherlock's head to bob above all the others. Once again, his voice made him known before the sight of him emerged. 

He was in a proper flurry, in his element, dashing from slab to slab and several wheeled tables which had been commandeered to hold extra and various dismembered pieces of smaller dimension. The tails of his coat flared out behind him as he rushed about the room. His dark curls, not properly tamed before he left the house, were charmingly unruly from the rough night and the morning breeze. 

"John, excellent, you're finally here. Start a file for each body; interview the watchmen standing by each slab and take special note of where each body was found and in what position. Note the compass direction as well when you make a sketch." 

John hadn't even realized Sherlock noticed him entering the room, but he shed his greatcoat and began his assigned task, relieved that Sherlock apparently welcomed his presence. He found sheets of paper and ink on the desk where he'd napped a few nights before their wedding. He progressed to the nearest slab, where the watchman present looked the youngest and most uneasy, and started his notes. The man had simply been doing his rounds without any alert called or distress from the few people out in the wee hours. 

"It were quiet, sir, like usual in the stillness of the morn. I almost wouldn’t have noticed the body except that it was set right in the glow of a gaslight." He answered John's questions succinctly, quite professional for one so youthful, but John noted he kept his eyes specifically on either John or the far wall and never on any of the bodies in the room. "On its... his back. South, mainly, towards the river. Well, the river bends, don't it, so pointed towards the Thames, but not towards the nearest bank of it." 

John also took note of anything else that came to mind, including the man's name and address, time on the job and whether this was his normal shift and beat. He took rudimentary notes on each body to connect it to the watchman and location, so even if the papers got confused later, they could be properly sorted. He moved on to the next watchman, and the next, and the room gradually began to clear. The constant work cleared John's mind, much like surgery after surgery often made him forget about the bloody battle raging less than a mile away. 

Even as the number of people in the room dwindled, the room still seemed awfully crowded with even just the bodies present, not considering the morgue staff, himself, Sherlock, and Lestrade. Sherlock was moving from body to body, sometimes prodding lightly with gloved hands or moving the odd still-attached limb, still working through his cursory examinations. Lestrade was doing his best to coordinate everyone and kept running to the hallway and back, taking reports and talking quite seriously to the occasional government official. 

"John, are you done yet?" came Sherlock's imperious voice over the conversation with the last of the watchmen. 

"Nearly. Just want to get this last sketch verified before I send Mr. Abbey on his way." 

"Well, hurry, then, and we'll get started examining the bodies." 

John nodded, turning back to the watchman and his notes. He made a few changes to the position of the body in his sketch, propped up as it was against the receiving station near the Thames, then thanked the watchman for his time and dismissed him to speak to Lestrade on his way out. 

"So, John, shall we go through the bodies chronologically as to when they were found, geographically north to south, or east to west, or just take the nearest slab and have a go?" Sherlock winked at John cheekily, any residual ill humour from the night before long faded. The gesture prompted John to smile in return. 

"Oh, let's go chronologically." John shuffled the papers in his hands and led Sherlock to a particular slab. Sherlock brought along a lamp, though the sun still lit the room sufficiently. "Three-forty-five, Salisbury Square." 

"Not far from Blackfriar's Bridge." Sherlock hummed, glancing at the map Lestrade had tacked to the wall. The runner had marked the location of each body with a T-pin. Sherlock nodded sharply once he had apparently fixed in his memory the particular body with its mark on the map. 

John hastened to show Sherlock the sketch he had drawn of the body's position relative to nearby landmarks and compass directions. Sherlock scanned through the report and then began to examine the body itself. 

Like the others that had been found that morning, the body was removed of both clothing and extremities. In most cases like this, if there had been any other cases like this, unless the victim had some particular scar or birthmark, the body would go unidentified. 

"Seven distinct skin discolorations on the ribs, back and left thigh. One scar on right hip, barely visible, consistent with a fall as a child off a short wall or lower limb of a tree. No other wounds, no scarring from disease, slight excess weight carried mostly around the waist, firm musculature otherwise." John took careful note of each observation. Sherlock bent close to examine a few tiny puncture marks along the neck tissue. 

"Does the body smell unusual to either of you?" he asked, frowning. 

Lestrade raised his eyebrow in a manner that said he was trying his best not to smell anything. But John leaned forward to take the barest whiff. Those unused to the smells in the morgue were typically relieved by camphor or other strong unguent rubbed beneath the nose, but none of the men, even those watchmen who were ill at ease, had requested such a thing. _Wait, camphor…_

"Sherlock, have you noticed that Anderson has not offered us any camphor for the smell?" 

"It is unlikely that he'd _offer_ to do so, John, as he resents my intrusion on a normal day, much less under such extraordinary circumstances. Besides, it is unnecessary." Sherlock gave John a questioning look, as if the doctor was admitting he needed such a thing. 

"With a roomful of bodies whose time of death has yet to be determined, though they were found hours ago, in places all around the city and some by the Thames? Even If they all died in the last twenty-four hours, which seems unlikely due to the extent of the pure butchery the bodies have undergone, there would be more than a faint chemical smell emanating from them." 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sniffed again, then resolutely and methodically sniffed each body in turn. 

"Clever John," muttered, his face closing down as he added the new information to all that which was swirling around in his brain. "I would be interested to know the formula used to so thoroughly embalm the victims." 

"Could be Ruysch's _liquor balsamicum_ preservative, or something similar," John suggested. 

"He took his formula to the grave eighty-four years ago, John, and his methods were not widely copied. And I'm not even certain that his results were quite so pristine," Sherlock argued, but his tone and smile indicated he was surprised and more than pleased with his husband's knowledge. John flushed and ducked his head. "We shall have to take further samples to see if we can isolate the preservative." 

"Is it similar to the scent of the man from the other night?" 

Sherlock considered, sniffing again and rolling the scent around in his memory. 

"There are a few notes of similarity, but I suspect this formula was created for a different intent. Still, such a master of mortuary chemistry! There is only the slimmest chance that the two formulas are unrelated." 

Sherlock bent over the body again, examining all the raw edges in detail. John scratched out notes as quickly as he could, trying to keep up with Sherlock's quick and incessant deductions. 

"This quality of preservation calls into question my deductions about the hands and feet we recovered. I had thought they had been removed close in time, but it now seems entirely possible that each victim could have been killed quite close to the date of abduction. Between the cool weather and this excellent preservative, these corpses could remain in state for weeks or perhaps months, if not longer." Sherlock gestured for John to assist him and the two of them rolled the body on the slab to its side. "I also believe we can make a reasonable deduction of identity, at least of this particular body." 

"Really? That's amazing!" John blurted out. Sherlock lifted his head for a mere moment. "Sorry, do go on." 

"It's fine." Sherlock shook himself and resumed. "I believe this man to be Liam O'Malley. Lestrade, you'll have to check the files in your office; I believe I initially set this one aside as I did not believe any of the limbs we found belonged to him, but this scar is mentioned in the missing person's report." 

Lestrade noted the name in a small notebook with a stub of pencil. 

"Next!" Sherlock looked at John expectantly. John flipped through his papers and led Sherlock to a female body. 

"Four twenty-five. Guilford Street near the Foundling Hospital. Shoulders oriented towards the north. This particular location is on regular patrol, so it's certain that the body appeared within an hour of being found." 

"Were any of the other timeframes pinpointed so precisely?" 

"No, this was the only one that was directly in the regular path of the watch. The ones not along the Thames were in trafficked areas. The body at the receiving station was the penultimate discovery; the man on duty heard nothing to signal its arrival and only happened upon it when he went out for a piss." 

"Probably slept through the night sound as a child rather than keeping watch. South end of the Waterloo Bridge?" John confirmed this with a nod. 

They continued this way through the morning and well past the noon hour, going through each of the bodies in turn. John continued to be astounded at Sherlock's ability to connect the subtlest markings with the files he'd read in Lestrade's office several days past. Lestrade had a great deal of work ahead of him, between informing the families and interviewing each again about the last days of their loved ones. 

"It is unfortunate that the time of disposal cannot be properly pinpointed. However, we must expect a logical progression through the city. Lestrade, have your men keep their ears out for descriptions of a wagon or other conveyance travelling in an east-to-west manner between these points. That would be the most logical progression, given the discovery times and the methods of the watch." 

All three men knew that little would likely come of that. A wagon going through the streets of London, even in the middle of the night, would bring little attention to itself. 

"What is unusual is why these victims were chosen," Sherlock mused. "They were people that would be missed; in many cases, almost immediately. If one was looking for test subjects and did not want to be discovered, there are legions of beggars on the streets. Few would be missed, and those that were would have no family of means able to search for them. 

"Also, the dumping of the bodies stretched over miles, all over Town, with no connection between them. Why not just dispose of them all at once? What is the pattern here, the meaning?" 

"Were the bodies found near where they were taken, by any chance?" 

"Hmm, no," Sherlock answered after reorganizing the information in his head. 

"Whoever it is clearly wants to be discovered, or is playing some kind of game of terror with the city. After today, there will be no keeping the news from the papers. Too many witnesses," Lestrade sighed. He was not looking forward to the panic this case would bring by the evening editions. 

"What? Be discovered and surely hanged for the crime?" 

"Be legend. Prove his genius," John said. 

Lestrade snorted. "You know all about showing off, Sherlock. That motivation cannot come as a surprise." 

Sherlock gave Lestrade a most disgusted look, distracted from his glare only when John patted his arm. 

"I think it's time for a break, Sherlock. Man cannot live on crimes and puzzles alone." 

"Do not bastardize proverbs, John, to excuse your stomach." 

John did not take this personally; after all, his stomach had been distracting him an hour now. He smiled and patted Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Shall I bring something back for you?" 

"I don't eat when I'm working. But do take a break. Your leg must be paining you." 

"Some tea, at least, Sherlock." 

Sherlock hummed a non-response and moved to another slab. He carefully extracted a sample from the body and brought it to a microscope near the window. 

John took the cold-shoulder with grace and left the room with Lestrade. 

Lestrade nudged John in the hallway. "Well done in there, even if Himself won't acknowledge it. But just so you know, I've never once known him to trust the questioning of witnesses to another person. Not even myself." 

John isn't quite sure how to answer that at first. Had Sherlock paid him a veiled compliment in trusting him? "Perhaps he was just overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information to be collected that he was forced to delegate." 

"If you feel the need to believe that, Dr. Watson, go ahead. But I suspect something else entirely."


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little more morgue grossness... bear with me ;o)

"John, we should perform a full autopsy on at least one body.  I'd like your assistance," Sherlock said from where he'd commandeered Anderson's desk in the corner.

"He's not here, freak."  Anderson's snide voice grated on Sherlock's nerves.  He was lucky the morgue attendant had kept quiet most of the day, sulking he'd been deemed extraneous when his own morgue was overflowing with bodies.  "He and Lestrade went to get dinner like normal people."

Sherlock ignored Anderson, and soon after the man huffed and left, balling up his work smock and tossing it ineffectively at Sherlock.  John _had_ mentioned food.  How long ago was it now?  Shouldn't he and Lestrade be back?  There was a case on, after all!

And the case, the case, how messy it was.  Such a glut of murder.  Nothing but the most superficial similarities between the victims – strong, healthy people who would be missed, taken right out of their daily lives.  Sherlock wanted to talk to more of the families, pinpoint the places where they were last seen alive, find the connection between them all that made the murderer target them, collect them for his little spree.  Had they all visited the same sweet shop, crossed the same street, worn a particular color of clothing?  Or had it just all been happenstance?  Everything seemed so random: the victims, the abduction locations, the dump sites.  There had to be one miniscule piece that was missing.  Sherlock wouldn’t know it until he saw it, so he couldn’t exactly _look_ for it.

Five hands, four feet, three heads, and then eight bodies!  Sherlock had initially postulated a countdown with the first three deposits, but this last day had breached the pattern.  The initial delivery of hands had been followed at length by the feet, but the heads and torsos were discovered in a considerably shorter window.  Had the killer gotten bored with waiting for Sherlock to catch up?  Or had something else happened to make the killer change his methodology?

Sherlock was used to catching up to criminals fairly quickly.  This one, though, seemed to leap ahead each time Sherlock nearly had his thoughts organized.  He was falling further behind each day.  That was infuriating.  However, ire and exasperation would only serve to distract him.

Distractions…  He had so many these days.

Sherlock took a sip from the cup of hot tea in his hand.  Then he blinked.  When had he been holding tea?  A burst of laughter in the previously quiet room caught his attention.  John and Lestrade were back.  _John_.  He must have slipped the cup directly into Sherlock's hand while all his attention was devoted to his thoughts.  Sherlock took another sip, pushing aside the wrapped pasty also left nearby.  Distraction.

John hovered over Lestrade, who had perched on a stool, rifling through a stack of papers six inches high.  The files.  He must have either fetched them from Bow Street, or, more likely, sent one of the other runners for them.  Either way, he and John had their heads bent over the stack, obviously looking for the names Sherlock had mentioned earlier.  _John was standing too close to Lestrade_ , Sherlock thought, even as he berated himself for the bubble of emotion.  He tamped it down to an innocuous annoyance.

"John, I need your assistance with an autopsy," Sherlock declared. 

"Oh, of course."  John clapped Lestrade on the shoulder before walking to a wall hung with hooks and borrowing a clean smock to cover his clothing.  "Anyone in particular you want to start with?"

It wasn't likely to matter, so Sherlock chose a body at random and they started the meticulous dissection and documentation.  He drew one of his thin leather gloves over his scratched hand, not wanting to irritate the wound with chemicals or filth from the body.  _Due for another trip to the glovers quite soon.  Must tell John to remind me._

He and John worked well together, Sherlock noted an hour later.  John made quick, deliberate, professional cuts into the body in front of him, as he would, and sometimes made observations on the quality of the organs or preservation from the point of view of someone who had seen this many times.  Sherlock had spent time in anatomical studies, but he had nowhere near the medical and surgical experience John had.

The body had been cut open once before and stitched back together, as if the killer wanted to glory in his own handiwork.  None of the internal organs had been damaged in any way, though the muscles of the abdominal wall had been removed to reveal what lay below and replaced.  The initial cuts through the skin had allowed the body to be lain open completely and the interior observed as in a scholarly dissection.

Both he and John marveled at the expertise with which this had all been done.  It really was quite amazing how the heart looked like it could beat at any moment, had there been any blood to circulate.  The lungs were pink and fresh and ready to draw air.  There was no scent of putrefaction at all and each organ was properly firm.  Even the dismemberment was skilled; time had been taken, amazing dexterity had been implemented. 

Sherlock drew samples from within the body, bits of tissue and several volumes of liquid.  He would test these later, hopefully narrowing down the chemicals involved.  He felt he could rule out the common arsenic salts just by the quality of the preservation, but further tests were certainly required.

"Sherlock?"

He'd been lost inside his own head again, watching John's steady hands closing up the body.  The hour was late, by the insignificant glow of the lamps, yet John had no complaint about his leg, which must be aching.  If anything, he seemed unsuitably cheerful.  They'd gone over the body with detailed precision, but found nothing that was any help at all.  Despite Sherlock's interest in it scientifically, this was not a case to be solved in the morgue.

"Sherlock?  Did you want to examine another body?"

"No.  We can extrapolate the condition of the rest from the results.  It hasn't provided any clues beyond the initial visual examination.  Not worth the time."

"Very well.  So what's next?"  John clipped off the end of the heavy thread and started tidying the area.

"Where's Lestrade?"

"He left nearly an hour ago; did you not notice?"  John's face held humor, but none of the biting snideness of Anderson's similar comment.  "It is long past supper.  Speaking of which, you haven't eaten all day."

"Food slows me down," Sherlock replied mechanically, moving to gather his samples together into a leather case.

"Food fuels the body and brain, Sherlock.  We'll go home and see if Mrs. Hudson has anything to tempt you.  Really, that woman is a saint, putting up with you not appreciating her fine cooking."

"I do appreciate it.  Just not when I've got a mystery to solve."

"Well, this mystery is too complex for you to deny yourself food for the duration.  You will come home and eat.  I will not require anything else from you for the rest of the night, not sociability, nor silence, nor sleep."

Sherlock agreed to John's terms before the doctor finished putting away their tools and cleaning up, taking great care that they scrubbed their hands, not knowing yet what sort of chemicals were involved in embalming the bodies.  Sherlock disposed of his ruined glove.

John helped Sherlock into his greatcoat and then put on his own.  Sherlock flagged down a hack with his usual aplomb.  He directed the driver to take them to Baker Street and sat back against the bench observing John in the fluttering glow of passing gaslights.

_John's sitting slightly angled on the bench so he can stretch his bad leg out without interfering with my leg room.  His eyes are closed; he's weary.  It has been a long day and John was up late last night taking care of me.  He didn’t complain, though, not once about being tired or pained, though he must be aching.  He should go to bed when we get home._

_I want to go to bed with him._

Alarmed by his own thoughts, Sherlock gasped.  John stirred.

"Something the matter, Sherlock?"  His voice was sleepy, relaxed, slightly concerned.

"No, no," Sherlock covered hastily.  "I only just realized that we ought to visit Irene."

"Lady Adler?  What on earth for?"  John's voice changed, became more tight and clipped.

"She is known for her intellectual salons.  Many men of learning cross her threshold.  She may have heard something that will be of use, some bit of information she doesn't realize she holds."

"Oh, I suspect the lady knows exactly which bits of information are useful to others.  She'll want you to play her game for them."

"Hmm, perhaps.  If we surprise her, though, she may inadvertently reveal something."

"I should like to know what you think will surprise the lady.  Though I suppose turning up in the late evening, when she is no doubt entertaining, and scented with _eau de morgue_ might suitably qualify."

"We are not going now, John.  Simply arriving may do so, particularly given our interactions the last few days.  I shall think upon it."

The hack pulled up in front of their Baker Street home.  Sherlock bounced out onto the cobbles.  John didn't follow immediately.

"Sherlock," his voice said hesitantly from inside the dark recess of the cab.

"Yes, John?  Oh, your leg.  Here, let me assist you."  Sherlock half-climbed back inside and let John put a hand on his shoulder for leverage and balance.  It was awkward, but soon John was sighing at the foot of their steps.

"Will you make it up the stairs on your own?"

John paced back and forth a few minutes.  Matthews stood at the open door patiently before John felt fit enough to attempt the steps up to their door.  Sherlock couldn't help but linger a little too closely.

"You're threaten me with your cane like some ornery old codger, John."

"Stop hovering, then!"

"Swear you won't tumble down the stairs arse over teakettle and I will."

John started to laugh, but the burst of merriment gave him the energy to make it all the way to their private rooms on the first floor.  Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle along with him, so diverting was the sound of John's laugh.

"Matthews, see if Mrs. Hudson can send up a small supper before Sherlock takes over the table again with his experiments."

"I have not had time to properly set up my laboratory space, John, and the light is better upstairs anyway," Sherlock defended.

"Heaven help the state of our sitting room," John said, chuckling again to show he wasn't truly piqued.

As it turned out, Mrs. Hudson had a lovely stew ready to serve almost immediately, so Sherlock set aside his case of samples forlornly and tucked into the small dinner table in the corner of their sitting room.

After a few hearty mouthfuls, John tore into the loaf of crusty bread between them.

"So you really believe Lady Adler will have some clue for us?"

"I could skulk around the scientific academies for days and learn less than I would spending an hour at Lady Adler's."

"No doubt," John muttered, sopping up some of his gravy with a hunk of bread.

"Should she be forthright," Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't heard.

"I don't like the idea of you going there."

"I told you, John, she is all taunt and tease, like a cat with a mouse."

"A cat will eventually bite the head off its prey, Sherlock."

But John eventually acquiesced, so long as Sherlock promised to not attend Lady Adler without him present.  John stayed at the table long enough to be certain Sherlock kept his promise to eat then excused himself to bed.  When he moved past Sherlock, John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock was too distracted by the pleasant sensation that thrilled up his neck at the touch to respond.  If John thought that Sherlock was completely diverted by setting up his samples and beakers and test tubes, then that was acceptable.

Once John was gone, Sherlock let his hands fall into his lap and stared blindly at his equipment for more than a moment.  His mind spun with thoughts that had nothing to do with the paraphernalia in front of him, nothing to do with the mystery.  Instead they were muddled and all about John.  He remembered the small kiss placed on the corner of John's mouth at their wedding ceremony, the gentle kisses he gave Sherlock that evening in the garden.  _Gave, without demanding anything_.  Sherlock wanted those sweet kisses again.  And he wanted to respond properly to them this time.

Damnation!  John was nothing but a complication, a vexation, an instrument of devilish temptation.  Sherlock had sworn to hold himself to much higher standards than the common man and until John, it had almost been easy.  John, all charm and kindness, John who eagerly enjoyed Sherlock's company, John…  John, who just now, without even being present, seduced Sherlock from irritation and anger to soft sentimentality.

Sherlock sighed, defeated, and moved to set up his first experiment, one whose chemical reactions would take most of the night to develop.  He very deliberately schooled his thoughts on his upcoming tasks, reciting each step loudly in his head to overpower any other thoughts.


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the adoration of the last chapter, my lovelies! If you liked that, you'll LOVE what I have planned for this weekend! Three updates in quick succession! Here's the second one! The third will be posted by Sunday night. Thanks again for all the comments and love! And thanks for hanging in there when I went nine or ten days without an update!
> 
> (yes, like Sherlock, I quite often only speak in exclamations!) ;o)

It was hours later when Sherlock was startled away from the observations of the precipitate in one of the six test tubes in the rack in front of him.  He lifted his head to monitor the silence of the house.  Matthews and Mrs. Hudson had long since gone to bed and Sherlock had yet to see the meek little maid since his marriage, though he'd met her when he'd first moved in long enough to instruct her to never, ever, not once, not even to look, step foot in his lab.

The sound transpired again.  This time, Sherlock heard it quite distinctly.

"Please, God."  It was a desperate entreaty, half-sobbed.  Sherlock rose without thinking anything other than, _John._

The resounding crash of a considerably amount of glass shattering made him hurry.

"Get down!  Get down!  Murray, I need some help over here!"

Sherlock swung open the door.  The lit lamp still flickered by the door, thankfully, and had not set the room ablaze.  The victim had been an unlit lamp by the bed, though John was hovering precariously close to the pool of oil and glass.

"A tourniquet!" John barked from his position on the floor before he crashed to his side on the floor with a roar.

Alarmed, Sherlock flew to John's side, desperate that he not fling himself into the glass and injure himself.

"John, John, wake up.  John Watson, it's Sherlock.  It's Sherlock.  We're home in Baker Street, in London.  John!"

John's eyes were open but unseeing.  His lips moved.  _Please, God, let me live,_ he said, making no sound.  _Please, God, let me live._

"John, John," Sherlock begged, bringing John's stiff body into his arms as close as possible.  "You're alive.  You're home.  You're in London."  Sherlock repeated everything he could think of to bring John out of his nightmare.  "You came home to England.  Your leg healed.  You got married four days ago.  I'm your husband, Sherlock Holmes.  You're fine, you're fine, I've got you."

Sherlock could feel John's heart pounding much too hard and much too quickly.  His breath came in wheezing gasps that sounded too much like Sherlock's when he'd been strangled.

"John, you're safe.  You healed.  You're fine."  Sherlock held his husband tightly and John wasn't fighting his grasp.

"I'm not fine," John finally uttered.  The words were weak, but they were conscious words. 

"You'll be fine," Sherlock amended.  "You'll be fine.  Let's get you back to bed."

"Can't," John replied, shaking his head.  Sherlock detected the strain in John's voice.  He ran his eyes over John's body, quickly marking the twitching and tightened muscles in his scarred leg.

"I can help."  Sherlock laid John's upper body back on the floor, then knelt beside him, careful of the glass nearby.  He quickly determined the muscles contributing to the worst of the pain and laid his hands on the bottom of John's foot and the lower part of his shin.  Pressing on the calloused ball of his foot stretched out the shortened calf muscle, the gastrocnemius muscle; bearing down on his shin kept his knee straight.  He knew that John also often felt pain in the peroneus longus and brevis, the former of which had sustained some damage.

John gave a bit of a grunt, but soon let out a breath in relief.  Sherlock continued his massage, rubbing the afflicted muscles until he felt them relax.

"It's always worst when they come together," John said, moving his arm over his eyes.  "The pain heightens the dreams, makes them so vivid."

"Do you want to talk about your nightmares?"

John didn't respond.

"You were dreaming about getting injured, yes?"

"Yes.  It's not always that, and I don't always lash out as much."  John moved his arm from his eyes and pushed himself up into a sitting position.  Sherlock lowered his foot to the floor and pressed his fingers into John's leg just above his knee.  "Oh, I've broken the lamp."

"Don't worry about it.  It can be replaced."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock replied with some curiosity.

John let himself slump down between his propped up arms.  "I gave Harry a black eye once, when I first got back.  I don't remember it happening; I was in the grips of a fever and didn't surface until it had healed, but he made sure to tell me."

"He deserved it."

Sherlock said this so mildly and matter-of-factly that John had to laugh, shaky though it was.

"Can you get back into bed now?  It's awfully cold on the floor and you're only in your nightshirt and drawers."

"Yes, I think so."  It was easy with Sherlock's help.  He ducked under John's arm and lifted him back onto the mattress.  The sheets and counterpane were entirely askew, so Sherlock stripped them free and remade the bed with John in it.  Then he stirred up the fire while John stared resolutely up at the ceiling.

"I could get my violin and play for you, or read aloud.  I know you like to read when you've woken in the middle of the night."

"You don't have to do that.  I'm sorry to have interrupted your…" John flickered his eyes over Sherlock, still fully dressed with the clock near to striking two, "experiments."  It was clear he hadn't been sleeping.  _Clever John, my deductive protégé._ Sherlock almost beamed at him.

"It's fine.  There is an occasional lull in waiting for a reaction.  Nothing will set on fire if I don't return to it until morning."

"Morning?"

"I wish to try another experiment, John."  Sherlock bit on his lower lip, not quite looking at John lying so comfortably in bed looking back at him.

"What sort of experiment?"  John twisted his arm up behind his pillow, propping up his head just a little.

"Whether company in your bed helps you sleep better, or worse."

Sherlock had kept an informal mental log of John's sleeping habits along with the findings from his examination of his leg.  His sharp gaze could certainly ascertain the weariness in John's eyes of a morning, the volumes John went through, and the amount of lamp oil spent to keep John aware of his surroundings in the dark of night.

"So you want to lay in bed and, what, watch me sleep?  I don't think that will help."

"Don't be silly, John.  I will sleep as well.  Sympathetic somnolent sounds may be peaceful for you."

"My tossing will keep you awake."

"I don't need much sleep, John.  It will be fine," Sherlock replied quickly.  "If the experiment doesn't help, we will cease and I'll think of something else.  Besides, it may be handier if something like this happens again.  I will be alerted to your pain and your dreaming state and be in a position to help you much more quickly."

John picked at the counterpane and his facial expressions betrayed his uncertainty.  Apparently, though, he could not think of a good enough reason to continue the debate, so he gave his assent.

"I'll change into suitable nightwear and be back directly, then."  Sherlock was glad the low yellow glow of the lamp masked his blush.  His stomach was flipping and he wasn't certain how he would endure the hours until dawn lying stiffly in John's bed.


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the chapter I promised. In my time zone, it's still Sunday for an hour! I feel like Smaug, chewed me up, digested me and shat me out, to mix source material. I didn't suspect I would have as much trouble with this chapter as I did! It was supposed to be an easy one. But once I figured out what the heck I was doing wrong, sent a bunch (sobs!) of good lines to the outtake area, it went much smoother! And I think everyone will be pleased with the result, much more so than what I had originally written (been trying to write).

John woke slowly, surrounded by warmth and comfort.  He felt content to drift and doze with no pressing need to rise for the day.  He hadn't woken so pleasantly in… goodness, it must have been years.  Before his injury when he woke with pain and nightmares, before the war when he woke to cannonballs and gunfire and the screams of young men.  It made him feel old briefly, to think of not having a pleasant rest since the years of his minority.  And even then, this luscious, languorous feeling was rare and fleeting.

Then the source of heat against John's back shifted, awakening him to the fact that he was not alone in his cozy bed.  His heart gave a few thunderous thumps, but the rest of him remained intensely still, assessing the situation.  Sherlock.  Sherlock had climbed into John's bed last night when John had woken in a panic, broken the unlit lamp near his bed, and had been found crouched on the floor unable to move.  The nightmares were worse than battle.  Fear of pain, he could understand, and fear of death.  The nightmares were fear in its purest form, undiluted and insurmountable, and John found them utterly debilitating.

So that led to Sherlock, quite logically, helping John into bed and back to sleep.  He said the sleep sounds of a bed partner might ease John's unconscious mind.  And it truly helped.  John had drifted off to the sound of Sherlock's regular breathing as he lay on his back in the bed, not sleeping but thinking, always thinking.  Though at what point Sherlock had curled up so tightly behind him, John couldn't say.

John tried to relax, pretend he was still slumbering.  This was the most contact Sherlock had ever initiated, even if he was asleep and unaware.  It felt nice.  John wanted to imagine it meant more than just warmth on a cold night for a little while longer.  Sherlock's warm breath on the back of his neck was pleasurable; his long fingers were splayed over John's belly carelessly.  Sherlock's lanky form was bent up against his, knees tucked behind John's, groin firmly pressed against his buttocks.

And speaking of firm, Sherlock's body was displaying a certain tumescence, though whether from dreaming or proximity to another body in bed, John couldn't be sure.  Sherlock shifted and pressed a little closer; the resultant friction prompted a breathy sigh against John's nape.  Sherlock's lips were so close to John's skin he could feel their heat.  John felt his own arousal stirring, especially when Sherlock's fingers tightened around his waist, pulling him closer.

John felt the pleasure like a vigorous fluttering inside; when Sherlock's lips pressed solidly against the curve of his trapezius muscle, the fluttering coalesced into a full-body shudder.  The cords of John's neck vibrated under Sherlock's lips much like the violin strings did under his bow and fingertips. 

John's reaction escalated when Sherlock's fingertips slipped below John's navel in a blatant caress.  His nightshirt had rucked up in the night; it would have left him bare from the waist down had he not decided to start wearing drawers to bed.  Sherlock's fingers danced below the muslin of his drawers, teasing the bared skin of John's belly.  John laced his fingers with Sherlock's, halting the downward movement of his hand.  It wouldn't take much more of this for John to achieve a full cockstand.

Twisting in Sherlock's arms didn't stop the sensual assault, but heightened it.  John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock's lips brushed along his jaw, over his morning-rough cheek, and finally over John's mouth.  Trembling, John returned the kiss.  _God, those perfectly etched lips, so soft,_ he thought, tracing his tongue just along the moist edge.  When Sherlock's lips engulfed his more passionately, John responded with a husky, "Sherlock," moaned into that voluptuous mouth.

The repercussion of John's voiced desire, however, was that Sherlock suddenly became very aware of his surroundings and he pulled back, eyes wide in alarm.

"John, I… didn't intend for the arrangement of bed sharing to culminate in my unconscious molestation of your person."

"Sherlock…"  But Sherlock did not allow John to voice his desire.

"No, no, the indiscretion was unforgiveable," Sherlock blathered as he slid to the far side of the bed.  "I believe the experiment was a success up until that point.  You did not wake from further violent dreams."  Sherlock's face was red to his ears and down his long neck, but he kept talking, not hearing John's pleaded repetition, "Sherlock, please, it's fine…"

"Apparently my control grew lax as I abandoned my deductions and thought to succumb to a few hours of sleep.  I had only intended to assist in your untroubled slumber."

"Sherlock, I didn't want you to stop!" John shouted in his captain voice as Sherlock slid off the edge of the bed and reached for his banyan.

Sherlock's utterances stumbled to a stop.  He blinked.

"Please, Sherlock, don't run away," John said in a much more tender tone.  "I want to talk about this.  Please?"  John shifted so he sat against the headboard with his pillow cushioning his back.

Sherlock wrapped the damask of his banyan around his body, but perched cross-legged on the foot of the bed facing John, the full diagonal space yawning between them.  John mused that neither of them were particularly comfortable, in multitudes of ways.  Still, he smiled.

"First I wanted to tell you that I very much enjoyed what we were doing and I would like it if we did more of that.  I feel I must be blunt.  I am attracted to you.  I want to share a bed with you.  I want to share pleasure with you.  I am aware you are not interested in me in the same way."

"I should think this morning's rather stimulating circumstance would have corrected that idiotic notion of yours, John."

"So… you are attracted to me?"  John wanted to believe this.  Still, there was one thing that plagued John's mind, something he had to hear refuted directly.  "But just after Victor drugged you, you said that you didn't want me."  John hated that his voice sounded the least bit tremulous.  He steeled himself for Sherlock's response.

"I said no such thing."  Well, John hadn't been expecting that.

"I remember quite clearly.  You, on the other hand, were under the influence of a mind-altering substance."

"I still remember what I said.  I told you that I did not want you _like that_ , with the drug, with the situation under Victor's control.  That is why I was going to go with him, to keep you safe.  When you came out after us, I had to muster every bit of control I had left to deflect his pin-ring.  I couldn't bear to see you sullied with such an obscene chemical."

While John stared at Sherlock with no response and a warm, bubbling fuzziness in his belly, Sherlock continued speaking.

"I do find myself frustratingly attracted to you."  Sherlock admitted this in the same way a child might mutter an ashamed apology.

"Then we both want more, yes?  But if you are not ready for more, are not comfortable with that, all you have to do is tell me."

Sherlock picked at little nothings on the counterpane.  "We both know I am no innocent, John."

"That doesn't matter, Sherlock.  You are not accustomed to me, and I am not accustomed to you.  We are new at being together.  There's always a bit of awkwardness at first, but I think we could get along quite well together."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock, I cannot force you to love me.  That has to happen naturally or not at all.  But I will ask you to be honest with me."

"I'm always honest, John, unless it serves my purposes to be dishonest."  Sherlock's biting candor was back, if slightly subdued.

"Then can I ask why you pull away?  Do you wish to not be intimate with me?  Or at all?"

Sherlock sighed and drew his legs up and looped his arms around his knees.  His bare feet and long calves poked out from beneath the fabric and he twitched a bit of blanket over them.

"Is it some form of religious or philosophical asceticism, like Victor said?" John asked delicately.  Various men of philosophy and science were known for taking such a vow, believing that the act of releasing one's seed would somehow diminish the functions of the brain.  This sounded far too much like Sherlock.

"John, I should think you would know me well enough by now to realize I would hardly make random vows to try and appease a fickle deity."  Sherlock dismissed Victor's denouncement with an appropriate amount of scorn.  "But when I left Victor, I declared myself celibate for my own reasons.  I had not considered Mycroft's choice of spouse would be such a source of temptation."

For all that this wasn't precisely what John wanted to hear, he was a bit relieved.  He tempted Sherlock.  He could work with that.

"The whole business of matrimony and sentiment is perplexing, I admit that.  And sexual pleasure is most certainly a distraction from the crisp and proper workings of my mind.  It is an indecorous activity made pleasurable to ensure the propagation of the species.  I do not personally feel the urge to procreate, so I felt confident in my ability to sever myself completely from the business.

"I intended to live my life with focus and purpose, forsaking all unnecessary distractions.  I had previously allowed pleasures of the flesh to diminish me to a mindless wretch and I despised myself for it.  I had so much wasted time for which to compensate.

"And then in the midst of my intellectual restitution, I find myself in the company of a man for whom I have the most unrelenting desire.  You're always infiltrating my thoughts.  I want to say that I ought to have solved this mystery long ago were you not constantly distracting me, only you've proven so helpful that I wouldn't have recognized several important factors that you yourself have pointed out."

"So you do like me, then."  John tried to stifle his grin, but there was little use.

"You are a companionable man, John, and a more than adequate physician.  Surely you do not need me to tell you this," Sherlock replied with a weak touch of condescension. 

"Actually, I do.  I've been trying to understand what I've been lacking, why my husband, whom I greatly admire, turns from me when I ache to kiss him so much.  And then when he does kiss me, it is the most wonderful feeling until he soundly rejects me again.  It was shaving bloody filings off my heart, Sherlock."

"All the more reason not to have one."

"Sherlock Holmes, you are not heartless."  John gave Sherlock a fond look but Sherlock ducked his head away from it.  He scrambled off the bed. 

"Lestrade informed me that I need to apologize more.  I am sorry, John, for rejecting you without telling you why."

"Come back to bed, then."  John smiled at his husband and reclined a little more, patting the empty mattress beside him.

"Don't be a lay-about, John, it's half-eight.  We need to hurry if we are to catch Irene still abed.  I'll dress and return to help you through your stretches.  Ring Matthews for breakfast, will you?"

"Why on earth would we need to catch her _abed_ , Sherlock?"  The maddening mind of a genius certainly had a thorough method of crushing ardor.  John knew Sherlock wanted to talk to Irene about the case, but why, precisely, would that pop into his head now of all times?

"She won't be expecting it."

"She's met you, Sherlock.  I think that even entering her chambers before ten in the morning will not be a surprise," John said dryly.  Perhaps someday, when they were old men, Sherlock would cease to surprise him.

"Perhaps I shall bring a squadron of street children to breakfast?"

John was startled into laughter.  "A trifle extreme, but it would be rousing."

 


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. And as I work the next six days in a row, I can't guarantee there won't be another one. Thanks for everyone's comments. They really keep me writing when writing is rough. :) Oh, and the reason for the massive delay when I was writing all day Saturday? Yeah, I'm now 10,000 words into another, totally unrelated Sherlock Regency story, beginning when Sherlock spies John boxing at Gentleman Jackson's, gleaming, sweaty back and scar worthy of being licked like candy. It's nowhere near ready to post yet, but I thought I'd share the news.
> 
> For those keeping score, saccharine wasn't first recorded as a metaphoric term for something overly sweet until 1841, but the word existed in the 1670s meaning "of or like sugar." I like to think Sherlock capable of coining a metaphor. Besides, I already had to drop "mollycoddling" (1870) from the sentence, and saccharine just had the tone I wanted so I used it anyway. Yes, the etymological dictionary is getting quite a workout! :)
> 
> Also "sporting hotel" = brothel
> 
> Bond Street was a fashionable address in the Regency period, though it eventually fell out of favor. Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon was at 13 (Old) Bond Street, and next door was a fencing studio run by a man named... Angelo. I can't make this stuff up.
> 
> Lastly, Charles Darwin's grandfather Erasmus had written several scientific works on flora and fauna and even galvanism prior to 1802, so that's who I'm talking about, not Chuck. And one should not need this many notes to read a fan fiction. Jeez. LOL

Within an hour, they'd bundled themselves into a shabby carriage for hire and were underway towards Lady Adler's Bond Street address.  They rolled through several intersections in silence, Sherlock thinking and John observing him from the corner of his eye, of which Sherlock was more than aware.  Still, it surprised him when John lifted Sherlock's hand, turned it, and placed a small kiss on the bare inside of his wrist, just above the leather of his glove.

Sherlock's eyes flickered up and down over John but John just returned Sherlock's hand to his lap with a smile curving his lips and turned his attention out to the city passing by his window.  He quickly assessed his own involuntary reaction to the gesture.  So very curious, this thumping in his chest, this ache – but no, ache wasn't the right word as it was infinitely more pleasant.

"Now that I've agreed to consider incorporating a sexual component to our marriage, are you going to expect saccharine cossetting like hand-holding?"

"Does it bother you if I am sentimental?"

_No.  No, not at all._   But Sherlock didn't put his answer into words.  Sherlock had already put together that he was attracted to John no matter how much he would prefer for it not to be true.  Even admitting it, however, did not make him refrain from repressing it or attempting to avoid the whole realm of emotion.

On the other hand, Sherlock considered that part of John's appeal was that he was an unknown entity, an unsolved puzzle, something that Sherlock had forbidden himself.  Sherlock could only imagine how he would be – he did not know despite his fever dreams and this morning's unintentional proximity.  Possibly the reality would disappoint.  Perhaps if this were proven true, as Sherlock invariably found encounters of such magnified anticipation, then the desire he felt might dissipate.  To this end, perhaps he ought to initiate intimacies at the first opportunity rather than hold off and continue to so sharply desire something that could not possibly live up to his fantasy.

"I don't expect anything, Sherlock, except that you are yourself," John said when it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to answer him.  "As for hand-holding, I would need to be on your other side, to keep my gun-hand free.  Practicality, you know."

Sherlock had little response to this but his lips twitched upwards.

"So is there anything else I ought to know about Lady Adler before we visit?"

Sherlock mused through the vast multitude of facts he'd collected about Irene Adler.

"I suspect you know enough to be going on with, John.  She will likely play her games and tease, but she likes to be clever as much as I.  If she knows something I do not, she will be inclined to share just to see the rare look of surprise on my face."

Sherlock had the carriage let them out onto the stone walkway several doors down from Lady Adler's, in front of a building that housed Angelo's Fencing Academy, next door to the famous Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon.  John's eyes lingered upon the signs with more than casual curiosity.

"Have you interest in fencing or pugilism?  I know the elder Angelo; he owes me a favor."

"I don't think I'd be terribly nimble at fencing, not with my leg."

"With proper instruction, it is quite possible that the exercise will be beneficial."  Sherlock tucked John's hand around his elbow and guided John the correct direction to Lady Adler's door.  "We could discuss it another time, perhaps in the spring when the weather warms."

_Don't think about John in his shirt sleeves and breeches, sweat rolling down the back of his neck as the muscles of his legs and back and arms tense, advancing relentlessly towards his adversary.  Don't think don’t think don't think…_   Sherlock very deliberately began to categorize his surroundings.

The street was only beginning to bustle this early in the day.  Many among the _ton_ would have been at entertainments late into the night and would not yet have risen for the day.  Later in the day, the walkways would be brimming with ladies and their parasols and other fripperies.  After dinner, the young bucks would take over, perfecting their struts and bathing in the glory of being seen or going about unwholesome business.  But for now, John and Sherlock walked easily around the merchants and their clerks arriving for work, the early risers who preferred to make their purchases before the busy part of the day, and a few gentlemen indiscreetly staggering home from a sporting hotel.

Sherlock opened a door set between two storefronts and started up the steep flight of stairs.

"Surely the Regent does not climb these steps, Sherlock," John said with a trace of self-depreciation as he struggled with the final few steps to the second floor.  The Prince Regent was currently in his fifties and known for being a rotund gentleman.

"I believe not."  But Sherlock had caught the humor and rubbed a hand comfortingly over John's left shoulder blade as he caught his breath on the landing.  Then he realized what he was doing, jerked his hand away, and it became an awkward moment.  He should not have jerked away, but couldn't take back either the touch or the alarmed reaction.

John cleared his throat.  "Yes, well, which door is it?"  He smiled and allowed Sherlock to step by and rap with gloved hands on a white door with baroque styling and gilt paint.  "Of course."

They waited for a few minutes before Sherlock rapped again.  This time there was a rustling behind the door and it opened to a simply dressed young woman, blonde hair tied back in a ribbon.  Sherlock skipped the whole calling card convention and simply stated his purpose.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to see Lady Adler."

"My lady does not receive visitors at this time of day, gentlemen," the young lady said with a surprising amount of confidence.

"It is a matter of some urgency," Sherlock said, stepping into the doorway as if he hadn't heard her.  "Go fetch your mistress or I shall be forced to interrupt the lady in her chamber."

Any other lady's maid or servant might have scampered do to Sherlock's bidding, or even called for a footman to assist the gentleman back out the door, but this one eyed him up before flinging an arm in the direction of a regal blue sofa.  She marched off, head high and back straight, through a door on the far side of the room.

John removed his gloves and tossed them in his top hat.  Sherlock did the same, but removed no more of his outerwear; it wasn't like they were staying for tea.  He stalked quickly around the room, examining the walls, the paintings, the ceiling, the doorframes, even what appeared to be the amount of dust on the carpet.  John watched him, getting comfortable on the sofa.  He may as well.  There was no telling how long the lady would keep them waiting.

It was hardly five minutes before the door on the far side of the room opened again.  John stood automatically, turned to make a greeting, and froze.  Sherlock turned from his inspection of a blue and white vase in the corner to see what sight had struck John mute when duty called for a polite salutation.

It was indeed Lady Adler entering the room.  And she was quite nude.

"Gentlemen, what a lovely surprise."

"Irene, really, such a shameless display," Sherlock scolded as if completely unaffected.  "John doesn't know where to look."  John, after a bit of choking gasp, had turned his gaze deliberately towards the fireplace.

"I think he knows exactly where to look."  Irene smirked and draped herself across a chaise with all the deliberate eroticism of Venus.  "I find his shyness quite appealing.  I suppose you haven't quite found the time to thoroughly debauch him yet, then?"

Sherlock paced behind her and with a sweeping elegance of his own, drew off his greatcoat and shrouded all her mysteries with it.

Irene looked a tad put out, but Sherlock smiled falsely and said, "We wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

"Why, thank you for your concern over my well-being."  She claimed his greatcoat as her own, slipping it on and looking all the more naked with just a bare knee deliberately exposed by the arrangement of the wool.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his brain started churning.  He glanced at Irene as he paced about the room.

"What are you hiding?"

"I could not possibly be hiding anything.  _You_ , on the other hand, are hiding _me."_

"Nonsense, Irene.  You would not have pulled such a stunt unless you were deliberately trying to distract me from something.  You've hidden something, something concrete.  Something you do not wish discovered."  A mere moment, a single stride, and he had it.  "You've stolen something from the Prince, letters of some sort.  Hmm, and where are you hiding them?  In this room, surely."

Irene's face didn't change a whit, but that was as telling as any reaction.  Her eyes flickered in a direction only briefly, but Sherlock was waiting for it.

"Tell me what I want to know, and I won't open the safe behind your poor copy of a Reynolds and return the contents to their rightful owner."

"You haven't asked me anything."  Oh, she was so smug.

"Honestly, Irene, does history teach you nothing?  I realize you were an infant when that actress tried to blackmail the prince, but surely you must know that it won't work."

"I would never stoop to blackmail.  The letters are for my protection."

Sherlock snorted.  "Protection from poverty, perhaps."  Sherlock's eyes narrowed.  "They're not letters to you.  You wouldn't have had to steal them and the Prince Regent would never be so careless again as to write anything incriminating to a rather temporary mistress.  What precisely do you have?"

They glared at each other.  John looked on, utterly speechless.

Sherlock suddenly gave a grin worthy of a sun-bleached skull.

"Fine.  What do you want?"

"A name, or names.  Has there been any talk, Irene, of someone doing experiments with embalming fluid?  Or possibly of a regenerative nature?  I'd be most interested in the lowest gossip, the inane accusations."

Irene made a face.  "Embalming, so dull.  What use is a chemical to preserve the dead?"

"What if it could preserve life?"

"Then perhaps I could keep a secret if such a miracle were promised to me.  They say that beauty doesn't last forever, but I intend that mine shall."

"That is foolish, Irene.  You'd be better suited to becoming the muse of some poor, talented painter in your quest for immortality.  Though that would certainly disrupt your current comfortable arrangement."

"It's dreadfully dull sitting for portraits, Sherlock.  I prefer to make my mark on life.  Besides, if you are looking for embalming and regeneration experiments, you should not have left the dissection so early the other day on Victor's arm.  The heart began to beat while completely outside of the chest!"

That he'd missed something so spectacular only served to raise Sherlock's ire; that, and the way her eyes slid to John, to gauge whether Sherlock's husband had spied Victor and Sherlock leaving together the way she had.  John's visage remained relaxed and unchanged, to which Irene replied by twisting her mouth into a petulant little moue.

"I've already discounted the work Oliver has been doing in the anatomical field."  Sherlock paced and waved his hand as if physically wiping Oliver's presence from his mind.  "There is no indication he has a skill level commensurate with the work we've been seeing."

"The bodies found yesterday?"  Irene's eyes lit up.  "I do so love a mystery."  She straightened up on the lounge, arranging herself quite primly.  "Will you share?"

"No."

"Selfish."

"Yes.  Now, who else has dropped whispers of such dealings?  Who has shown undue curiosity on the subject?"

"Undue curiosity, my dear Sherlock?  The subject is all the rage, as well you know.  Even Byron and Shelley muse about the natural philosophies."

"Many may wax poetic on the subject, but few would have the chemical skill to design such a compound."

"Well, then, if I had to name three, they'd be you, Victor, and the Professor."  Her eyes glimmered with mirth.

"That's hardly helpful, Irene."

"Truthfully, Sherlock, I haven't the foggiest.  There are those who seek to continue Galvani's work on anatomical electrical impulses, such as Volta.  Or you could speak with Gerdy or Gratiolet, but they've not been in London to my knowledge."  Irene smiled again.  "Perhaps you ought to ask at a bookshop to see if there have been any suspicious characters purchasing Galvani and Darwin."

"Have you been following me?"  Sherlock himself had purchased one of Galvani's works and The Temple of Nature by Erasmus Darwin just the other day.  How had she known?  Of course, in spite of her cloying femininity, Irene would have won an argument with Plato himself.

"I hardly need to.  You are nothing if not predictable."

Sherlock squeezed his long fingers into tight fists, trying to control his temper.  He would not let this woman crawl into his head and make a home there.  To get the information he needed, he must outwit her.

"Very well, then.  Let us examine your suspects.  I know where I've been these past weeks and I am certainly not the murderer.  I know you've been carousing with the Regent, so you're unlikely to be experimenting with chemicals between fetes and banquets.  The Professor has likely been engrossed in building his electrostatic generator for weeks now.  We all know how bewitching he finds new toys.  So then what has Victor been up to?"

"Oh, so now you're asking me about Victor?  You could simply stop by.  I'm certain he would be absolutely thrilled to see you.  You could even bring your husband; I'm sure Victor wouldn't mind."  Irene's tone remained playful, but Sherlock couldn't quite see from his position what sort of look that she gave John to make him blush and fidget on the sofa.  Sherlock paced back behind John so that if Irene looked at John, she'd have to look at Sherlock directly as well.  She preened under his withering glare.

"Irene," he warned.  She smiled and continued on in her puckish tone.

"Before the dissection, though, I hadn't heard from Victor in weeks.  He has withdrawn from Prinny's circle, has hosted none of his usual entertainments.  I gather he has found a new lover over whom to obsess, a soldier."  Irene eyed John.  "Perhaps I ought to try one.  Apparently, they're utterly captivating."

"Have you met this soldier of his?"

"No, as I said, I hadn't seen him until the morning of the anatomical demonstration.  I take his solitude at the event to mean that his new friend is somewhat rough and uncouth, or he would have attempted to use the man to inspire your jealousy."

"Hardly possible."

Sherlock was frustrated.  His conversation with Irene was getting him absolutely nowhere.  He wandered over to the window, wondering where else to go, who else to ask.  Perhaps he ought to spend more time with the children on the streets.  They certainly saw more than anyone else in the city, and would enthusiastically turn their observations into coin.  Or perhaps the resurrection man Corbeau was charged with sending along with turn out useful, if he ever showed up.

He paced to the window, hearing Irene engage John in low conversation while Sherlock thought and turned things over in his mind.  The culprit simply had to be a man of science, someone educated.  He would make a list of all the scientific men in London if he had to, search each of their homes for proof…

Sherlock paused by the window, watching the people stroll past.  Just then, a hack paused to pick up a lone passenger.  The young man hopped into the carriage, testing the no-doubt aging springs.  When the carriage didn't drift back into traffic immediately, Sherlock ducked his head forward to peer more closely at the driver and his head thunked against the glass.

Irene's titter and John's "Are you alright?" registered, but Sherlock paid them no heed.  The would-be passenger exited once again only to shout something at the driver which was roundly ignored.

"Would someone be looking for those letters you stole, Irene?  Because there is a very suspicious driver intent on remaining in front of your door."

 


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the long lag time :( This chapter is also shorter than I'd intended, but I'm posting because I refuse to let this story lag a month like my Huntsman story. Suffice to say, I am a horrible, horrible author who needs a vacation from real life. My brain has been utter mush lately, and I'd blame it on spring fever only it's still supposed to snow this week (even though it was 80 yesterday).

 

"Captain Watson, despite my teasing, I do wish you and Sherlock the very best," Irene said as Sherlock strode to the window and immersed himself in the passing traffic.  She spoke softly as not to be overheard.

"Thank you, Lady Adler," John replied politely.

"You are much more confident in his presence this morning."  Her gaze had focused on John again.

"Am I?"

"You do seem to have reached a sort of accord.  I must say, I didn't imagine anyone would be able to reach him."  She glanced behind her towards the window, gaze lingering on Sherlock's stiff posture.

John suppressed his surprise.  Everyone in Sherlock's world seemed to be far too clever.  Still he wasn't about to be provoked into sharing intimate details of his marriage with this woman.

"I have no idea what you mean, Lady Adler."

"You're in love with him."

"You're mistaken.  We met less than a month ago."

"If you say.  But I see how you look at him."  She grinned with her usual playful intent.  "I see how you look at _me_ when _I_ look at him."

John didn't like her observation one bit.  "I believe Sherlock and I will suit each other, Lady Adler, and that is all I mean to say on the subject."  John edged forward in his seat, hoping Sherlock would decide it was time to leave very soon.

"Captain Watson, do forgive me if I am unkind."  She leaned forward towards him, clutching the wool of Sherlock's greatcoat around her neck to imply modesty.  "I am afraid I have grown bitter and it escapes me at times."  Lady Adler looked sincere but John would be foolish to trust her. 

"I do not presume to know what you mean."  John eyed Sherlock pacing near the window, but the man gave no indication that he'd heard.  He was lost in his own thoughts as usual.

"Sherlock was always the man none could tame.  Victor came the closest, but in the end he misjudged his manipulations and lost.  I don't think he has ever forgiven himself for that.  And I have no one but myself to blame for my imprudent heart."

"Lady Adler, I really don't think we should be having this conversation."

"Captain Watson… John, please.  One would think a man like him would be difficult to love.  Even he believes it.  But he is a brilliant sun, burning those who don't bask in his glow.  So few truly understand him and he understands no one.  He refuses the love given to him and I suppose I cannot blame him – I had nothing but selfish love, Victor, obsessive love, and Lord Sherrinford lorded over him since childhood.  He throws off us all for those imperfections.  Do not be 'dutiful' love, cold and cheerless, I beg of you."

John stiffened.  "Lady Adler…"

"Just pray don't give up on him.   Just love him even when he won't allow it."

Just then, Sherlock knocked his head against the window glass with a loud thunk, and gratefully, without a tinkling of shattered glass.  Lady Adler's nervous titter and John's, "Are you alright?" were ignored and Sherlock sprang away from the window.

"Would someone be looking for those letters you stole, Irene?  Because there is a very suspicious driver intent on remaining in front of your door."

John marked a rapid blink of Irene's eyes, the only indication she was worried at all by the implication.  She stood gracefully, fastening the coat's buttons to keep it closed over her naked form more securely.

"Kate," she called, her voice not the least bit tremulous, "Beta."  The maid, or companion, or whoever she was appeared a moment later with a satchel, a sturdy pair of shoes, and a large swath of sheer veil. 

Stuffing her feet into the quite un-Irene-like shoes, she progressed to the painting Sherlock had indicated before, swung it on hinges hidden in the framing, produced a key from whence John could not possibly guess as she'd not been wearing so much a necklace, and turned it in a safe box recessed into the wall.  Irene swept the contents into the satchel without a modicum of interference from either Sherlock or John. 

"Sherlock, my dear, I'm obliged to borrow your coat awhile.  I shall return it when I can.  Captain Watson, our chat was lovely.  I do hope we meet again."

With that, she ran lightly across the room to a small half-door Kate had opened in the wall, the entrance completely disguised by the lines in the wainscoting, ducked into it with the woman, and was gone.

"Should we follow her?" John said after his startlement had eased.

"To what purpose, John?" Sherlock replied drily.  "Capture her for the sake of justice or offer gentlemanly assistance to a lady who has no need of it?"

Since John didn't really have an answer, he remained silent, allowing Sherlock to reveal his purpose when he chose.

"Besides, John, it is the driver we are interested in!"  Sherlock gestured towards the window.  "Hurry now, John, we must catch a hack."

Sherlock burst out the door and was down the stairs.  John followed as swiftly as his leg would allow.  He clomped heavily down the steep staircase after Sherlock, glad they had little need of stealth since he could provide only one or the other.

"Why the hack, Sherlock?" John panted as he caught up to Sherlock, who was peering out the door onto the street.  "Surely if it is someone the… that was sent after Lady Adler, it is not a situation in which we ought to interfere."

"It's doubtful this man was sent after Irene.  I simply wanted to see if I was right about where and what she had hidden in her apartments.  The papers were most precious to her, so of course she would save them.  I suppose I could have set a fire, but such extremes proved unnecessary."

John blinked.  "Sherlock, that was reprehensible!"  But when Sherlock glanced back at him uneasily, he surely saw the irrepressible mirth on John's face.  When John began to let his laughter sputter out, Sherlock returned the smile.  "Oh, I shouldn’t be laughing, Sherlock, but I suppose she deserved a fright."

John was wiping his eyes, still giggling, when Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his upturned lips.  The action silenced him immediately.  It was a chaste kiss, just a press of lips, but John's heart felt like it flopped onto a bed in an overly dramatic swoon.

Sherlock hastily pulled back, clearing his throat and letting his eyes flutter back to the sliver of light from the street.  "Yes, well, she will return when she realizes she is not in danger.  In the meantime, take a look at the driver and tell me what you see."

John shifted towards the opening in the door.  Sherlock didn’t relinquish his place, so John tucked himself very closely against his husband.  The contact made him smile, aware of where his body touched Sherlock's: his left shoulder was tucked up against Sherlock's arm; Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his chest against John's back; and now John's ear was nestled against Sherlock's jaw as they shared the view out the narrow gap in the door.  John almost couldn't be bothered to use his eyes, so distracted was he by Sherlock's body.

It took him nearly a minute to see the driver and several long seconds before he understood what precisely Sherlock was trying to point out to him.  When he realized, he started, almost knocking his head into Sherlock's.

"That's the man we chased off Westminster Bridge the other night!"  The recognition had hit John all at once, though he could not have described the man in much detail.  There was simply something in the way that the man's hat was pulled down low over his face, his shoulders were hunched and the collar of his coat was drawn up around his ears.  There was just the sense of awfulness, wrongness that John recognized from the bridge as if it were a smell.

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a low voice close to John's ear.  "Shall we see if he gives us a lift?"

"Sherlock!" John hissed as Sherlock swung the door open and strode out into the sunlight.  Sherlock paused, but it was only to offer John his arm.

"Come along, husband.  We don't want to be late."  He winked and grinned at John's grimace, but John took a deep breath and went along gamely.  They strolled up to the still-empty carriage and Sherlock greeted the man perched above.

"My good man, can you take us up to Baker Street?"

The driver turned his head slowly and observed the two gentlemen standing before him.  Sherlock had scooped up his hat and gloves on his way out of Irene's but was still without his greatcoat, though the chill wind didn't seem to bother him.  John leaned heavily on his cane, free arm looped around Sherlock's elbow, peering up to give the driver a false, friendly smile.  The driver's head jerked in assent.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, opening the carriage door and handing John inside.  He clambered in himself and shut the door.  By the time he was settled in his seat, the horses had begun to tug the carriage out into traffic.

"Do you suppose he will actually take us to Baker Street?" John muttered under the noise of the horses, a multitude of wheels on cobbles, and the general cacophony of London.

"I do hope not.  Have you got your gun?"  John did and he checked it now before sliding it back into his coat's long pocket.  "It is too much to hope that he will take us to his master, I suppose, though that would be a lucky turn in the mystery."  Sherlock glanced out the window to ascertain their route.  They were heading neither north nor west towards Baker Street and they passed several streets where their course could have easily been corrected had the driver intended to do so.  Sherlock nodded at this with a pleased smile.

"Clearly, he was waiting for us.  I do wonder how long he has been keeping apprised of our movements.  The encounter at the Westminster Bridge could not have been mere coincidence."

"We can only assume that it's been all along, Sherlock.  Given the letters addressed to you, and these encounters, is it not likely that this entire puzzle is for your attention alone?  One wonders why he bothered to involve Mr. Lestrade or Bow Street at all."

Sherlock didn't seem to consider this a question worth an answer, just nodding absently, but he did continue to mark their route through London.  John tried to pay attention as well, but certain sections of London were basically unmarked mazes of streets and alleyways, and John had only ever learned his way about Smithfield when he trained at Bart's.  Sherlock likely had a better map of London in his head than anyone could possible print.

So it was little surprise that John had no idea in which dank rookery the carriage finally rolled to a halt and Sherlock stepped from the carriage with an appraising eyebrow.


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this last week, I had about half a page of what happened before they entered the building, and then about seven or eight pages after they got out of the building, but I had no idea what happened INSIDE the building. Zip. So it's not like I haven't been writing, nor wanting to update, but I just had this gaping hole I could not fill. I think it helped that today I finally had a day off and didn't have to run and do anything, and my brain finally decided to work :) So here this chapter is, and I've most of the next two done as well, so I ought to be able to update at least once before the weekend and likely again during.
> 
> My whole point being: thanks for hanging in there with me! I appreciate it! :)

Judging by the wind's direction and the smell, they were just west of Messrs. Potts' Vinegar Works, towards London Bridge, and the grounds of Barclay's Brewery began just north.  They'd practically driven past Bow Street and had crossed the Thames at Blackfriar's.  There was little traffic on this particular street in the midst of a workday, mostly wagons carting barrels and burly drivers one street over. 

"Where are we?" John hissed as Sherlock balanced him as he stepped from the carriage.

"Bankside, Baskerville Road," Sherlock replied.  "If all else fails, High Street is in that direction and will take you to London Bridge."  He said this in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the driver descending from his perch.  The man clambered deliberately, carefully, as if he wasn't quite sure of his step or grip, and wouldn't trust the strength of his limbs with a leap.  Sherlock's keen eyes noted the black-stitched cut on the base of the neck, visible as the man wore neither scarf nor cravat and seemed to be depending on a worn hat pulled too far down and his upturned coat collar for protection from the chill.  If he even felt it, of course.  If a bullet to the chest had not bothered him, a brisk wind was unlikely to cause discomfort.

John had his gun out, but it was still half-cocked and pointed to the ground, tucked behind a fold of his greatcoat.  He was watching their driver as well, ready at any moment to raise his gun in defense of Sherlock and himself.  Sherlock was certain from the way John's eyes focused on the man's head that any close range shot he fired into the man would not be an inefficacious body shot.  He was curious to know if a lead ball to the brain would work, actually, but this was hardly the time for that experiment.

Sherlock kept one tenth of his attention on the driver, but he seemed neither inclined to speak nor attack so Sherlock examined their whereabouts.  The long, low building behind them was clearly in use (brass handle on the nearest door, unpolished in a mottled fashion, shiny where hands touched it regularly), though the several residential buildings across the narrow street were clearly unoccupied, (an utter lack of laundry on the lines strung haphazardly across the alley taking advantage of the clear, breezy day; also several of these lines had rotted through and fallen proved that the buildings had been unoccupied for some time).

"This building, then?"  Sherlock gestured to it.  Their driver, still silent, gestured towards the door with a twitch of his carriage whip.  There was a very interesting humming noise emanating from within that drew Sherlock forward without prodding.  "Come, John."

John didn't hesitate, but swung his cane along and kept a wary eye on the driver who followed them to the door.  Several things assaulted the intrepid pair as the door opened: a smell both foetid and chemical, an utter miasma of stenches both human and manufactured; radiating heat as from a thousand bodies working in a confined space; and a thrilling buzz of static in the air that made their fine hairs stand up and crackle like miniscule lightning rods.

Despite this, there was no real sense of _people_ within the building.

Sherlock took several curiosity-driven steps forward; John hovered near the door, using the minimal amount of light that penetrated the vast building to survey their surroundings.  Sherlock darted to a nearby table and began to survey the equipment it held: blackened glassware, tongs, thick needles sharp enough to pierce leather, a cold, empty oil burner, long coils of copper tubing.  Several flasks and vials contained liquids of various colors and viscosities; six jars contained powders.  The floor gritted under their shoes from a thin layer of sand.

"Stay by the door for now, John."

John shifted as little as possible, mostly sidestepping out of the light from the doorway and up against the opened door.  He turned slightly so he could watch Sherlock examining the marks on in the sand on the floor and, without turning his head completely, see the driver hovering a few feet away in the street.

Sherlock, satisfied with what he'd gleaned from the marks on the floor, started opening flasks and very delicately sniffing their contents.  He did not touch the vial that clearly contained a chunk of white phosphorus and water, nor did he do more with the powders than examine the way they shifted within the glass.  It wouldn't do to cause an unknown reaction in a foreign lab.  Still, he slipped a stoppered vial with a thick red liquid into one of his pockets, and a few other unknown items became secreted about his person.

Minutes later, with the majority of the contents of the table stored away in his pockets or in his head, and Sherlock moved on to explore other things.  He had yet to ascertain the source of the heat and the humming breeze of static.  A light would have been useful here, but Sherlock considered what gasses an open flame might trigger; the smells inside were too strong to discern if anything in the air was particularly flammable.  Hopefully John wouldn't have to fire his gun and prove or disprove the presence of something ignitable within the air.

Sherlock crept deeper into the warehouse, further from the light at the door.  Any windows or openings the building had once had for light and ventilation had been closed up tightly.  The hot air closed in on Sherlock as his surroundings darkened and the light that remained took on a faint blue tone.  That blue light had an edge to it, as if its source was hidden behind a wall.  Sherlock moved in that direction, hearing a distinct whir mottled with stops and jumps.

A sudden change to the quality of the light made Sherlock pause and look back.  There didn't seem to be a rectangle of light behind him anymore.  There were a few glowing specks here and there, possibly the phosphorus that had been on the table and perhaps a few cracks in the brick or boarded-over windows. 

"John," he hissed.  Nothing but silence and darkness.  "John?" he called, just a little louder this time.  It was unlikely there was anyone in the building to hear him, and the driver already knew they were there.  Still, there was no response.  Surely if John were in trouble, he would have shouted.  Sherlock wasn't that far away; he would have heard a fight.  But if something had happened, a surprise attack he hadn't time to defend himself against, he'd be unable to respond.

The blue light brightened ahead of him and Sherlock wavered between going forward and going back.  _John._   A pit of dread opened in his belly and Sherlock sucked in a tortured breath.

The sense of uneasiness trebled, and Sherlock had decided to move back to the door to find John and fetch a proper lantern when a faint growl overpowered the electric hum.  Sherlock began to back away from the blue glow slowly, but it brightened as if approaching him.  The growl escalated into a quick, snapping bark.

Sherlock's heart began pounding and his eyes opened so wide it ached.  His vision was becoming accustomed to the darkness and the blue glow, but he blinked around in a panic looking for something he could not see.  _Be calm, be rational_ , he scolded himself, but soon that part of his brain disappeared and he felt like nothing more than a scared, shivering mess.  He'd faced worse things in his life; why should a dog and a dark room make him quiver like a child in the dark?

The barking continued until it seemed to echo all around Sherlock, as if Sherlock and the dog were trapped in a tight metal box, the sound reverberating against the walls until there was nothing but the dog, a hundred dogs, a thousand dogs clamoring with foam and bloodlust.

Sherlock had no weapon except for a knife, and he pulled it out now even though the last place he wanted to be was close enough to large angry dog to use a four inch blade.  And then he saw it.  It was huge, monstrous, with shaggy fur so black it glowed blue, eyes flecked with spectral marsh lights.  It barked so vigorously that it drooled drops of acid that glowed like phosphorus and sizzled when they hit the floor.

Sherlock's throat closed tight with fear; he breathed through his nose with shallow, whistling gasps.  He stumbled backwards, trying not to fall against tables or stools, barely noticing the cages and crates as the creature stalked forward towards him, swinging that massive head and baring row after row of serrated teeth the like of which Sherlock had only seen once hanging on the wall of a tavern frequented by sailors.  Great white jaws seemed to jump closer and closer to him, far ahead of the beast that stalked him.  Sherlock couldn’t turn to run; he couldn't remove his eyes from that snapping jaw, that horror-inducing creature whose hot breath already surrounded him.

He had to have backed up far enough to be at the door, to run into John, but there was just nothing but endless space for that beast to hunt him.  It had toyed with him so far, but soon it would spring, ripping into him, hopefully snapping his neck with those massive jaws before shredding his body into bloody chunks.  Yes, that was the only thing to hope for anymore, that he'd die quickly rather than in sumptuous agony.

Then there was a bright white light followed by a deafening bang.  After that, all light seemed extinguished, including the beast's glow.  Nothing but panicked whimpers escaped Sherlock's throat and his hand clenched even tighter around the handle of his knife as he twisted his head back and forth dizzyingly fast trying to see something, anything.

More white light blinded him and he threw up an arm over his eyes with the pain of it.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, are you hurt?  Sherlock, please say something."

The voice slowly infiltrated Sherlock's ears; he realized he'd been hearing it for a while but it had entered his ears only as a useless buzz, jolts in the constant static thrum.

"John?"

"Thank God, Sherlock."  Steady fingers peeled his fingers from the handle of the knife.  "Come outside.  You need some air."  Sherlock allowed himself to be led out into fragrant London.  His throat loosened and he swallowed great gulps of tangy, yeasty air.  The sky was too bright and the buildings wavered and frowned like great stone heads glaring at him and deciding whether he would be good to eat.

"What happened to you in there?  I was calling and calling."

"I… I don't know, John.  I was investigating the humming sound and this blue light.  Then I panicked.  And a giant hound was chasing me."

"That Bull and Terrier?  Vicious bastards, they can be…"

"A Bull and Terrier?  But it was massive."  Sherlock gestured with his hands before he realized he was describing a dog the size of a horse.  He let his hands fall to his sides, then over his face, pressing against his eyes.  "I must have inhaled some sort of chemical that invoked hallucination."  He tried to recollect precisely what he saw, but it was wall tinged with panic and confusion.

John clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to be of comfort.  Sherlock jerked away and began pacing.

"I need to think, John!"  Thinking was harder than it ever was; Sherlock's mind still felt muddled and in complete disarray.  It was as if he was searching through the rubble of a collapsed building.  Fine, he'd start with his body.  Taking deep breaths of brisk air, Sherlock cleared his mind and eventually the stuttering palpitations of his heart began to ease.  When he felt a bit more calm and in control, he opened his eyes and carefully examined the world around them.

The buildings were neither looming, nor staring at him with empty eyes, an all-around good sign.  He was slow to come back to himself, to realize that their driver, their guide into this hellhole, was hog-tied just inside the door of the warehouse, squirming and grunting but unable to break the hold of… rope and John's neck cloth.  John was watching him carefully, but he was just John, a capable soldier, a warrior medic even now applying a clean handkerchief to the cut near his temple without wince or complaint.  John's collar was undone and he showed signs of a scuffle: dirt marring the fabric of his coat, a trickle of blood just before his ear, a red mark on his chin that would likely bruise brilliantly by morning.

"John, are you well?"  Surely the intense alarm he was feeling was some after-effect.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," his husband replied breezily.  He might have grinned, even, but his face sobered when Sherlock said, "So tell me how you subdued the driver while I was inside uselessly crumbling into a pathetic wretch."

John frowned, leaning on his cane for a moment before answering.

"The driver tried to shove me aside and slam the door.  I managed to subdue him, but it was a close thing.  He doesn't seem to feel pain, even when kneed in the jewels.  Once I'd stunned him for a moment, I got his arms wrapped up in my cravat and things went much easier after that.  I found a bit of rope and finished wrapping his legs.  Just then, I heard the barking, saw you backing away from the dog, and shot it."  John shrugged like it was no big feat, that he hadn't bested a man who'd overcome Sherlock or saved Sherlock from a living nightmare.  "So, now what do we do?" 

Shouts echoed a block away and soon thick-soled boots thundered down the cobbled street.

"Apparently we wait for the police to arrive and tread all over every useful bit of evidence."

 


	65. Chapter 65

John paced slowly near the driver, who had not yet provided himself with a word in his own defense even as Sherlock and one of the constables asked him question after question.  Sherlock wasn't as familiar to the constables this side of the Thames, although his reputation certainly did precede him.  John was certain this was the only reason they'd been taken at their word.  To a complete neophyte, it certainly would seem more likely that the two gentlemen had been interrupted in the process of abducting an innocent hackney driver.  John was armed, after all, a fact he couldn’t hide given the shot that had attracted the attention of the watch and the ball in the brain of the dog inside the warehouse.

Sherlock explained in a flat voice that the trussed-up man was the same man who had attacked him several nights previous.  He left out that he had known precisely who the driver of their carriage was, but made much about the man's attack on and subsequent subdual by John.  Around the point of the tale in which he'd been accosted by the guard dog, Sherlock stalked off and John took over to calmly explain the laboratory within the warehouse, the unknown chemicals, the morbid scent in the air.

A few minutes later, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock crouched down as if peering at the cobblestones, the tails of his jacket becoming dirtied with muck from the street.  John wasn't sure if he ought to walk over there or allow Sherlock some well-deserved peace.  In the end, he let him be and kept an eye on him in case his husband showed signs of the panic he'd experienced inside the warehouse.

John continued to pace, keeping an eye on Sherlock's still form as two more constables sauntered onto the scene.  The marks on his temple and chin were finally beginning to ache, the exhilaration of the fight wearing away.  Tomorrow morning, perhaps even tonight, he'd ache sharply.  It was completely worth it.  For the first time in a long time, he would deserve his aches and pains.  He'd earned them, rather than had them thrust upon him.  Perhaps he wouldn't feel so utterly glad about it in the morning, but for now he relished the twinges when he blotted the cut on his temple or bent the knee on his bad leg just a little too far.

A bold constable had fetched a lantern and went inside with his handkerchief folded over his nose and mouth, while others circled the building and opened boarded-up entrances at John's suggestion that the building be may need to be cleared of dangerous gases.  The first constable, a young man with more brash than brawn, returned to the doorway requesting assistance and a crowbar or hook to pry open some suspicious crates.

Sherlock's head popped up as someone jogged past with a flat metal bar that might do the job.  He abruptly stood and followed after those compelled to investigate.

When he walked past, John said, "Sherlock, perhaps we ought to leave this to the constabulary."  What John really wanted to say was, _Sherlock, you don't have to go back in there to prove anything to me_ , but he didn't.

"John, if you think I'm going to leave this investigation in the hands of untrained, uneducated louts, you are an unconscionable idiot."  Sherlock ducked back into the warehouse.

John could see Sherlock pausing by the body of the dog through the door, but he could not see his face as he walked in a full circle around it, examining it in detail.

"You've got this, yes?" John said to the constable who had given up on trying to get the prisoner to speak and was now simply guarding him until such time as he could be transported away from the scene.  John didn't wait for an answer but limped straight back into the warehouse himself. 

In the light streaming from several doors, including one large enough to drive a wagon through, the dog on the floor was hardly the monstrous thing Sherlock had started to describe.  It was a beefy thing, brindled, and low to the ground with a wide mouth and plenty of sharp teeth, bred to harry bulls at market.  It had probably been a rather stalwart guard, but John could only wonder exactly what Sherlock had seen and heard as the beast loudly and aggressively advanced.

The temperature inside the building had dropped enough that John judged the air fit for human consumption.  Besides, there was no way to know if Sherlock had ingested something from one of the vials on the worktop instead.  As long as everyone, including Sherlock, kept a sane thought in their heads, John would deem it safe.

Two constables had made quick work of determining the contents of half a dozen boxes.  The crates, the ones John could see lining the walls in stacks three or four high, were filled with bodies.  Or, more accurately, body parts.  The men grimly continued their work, undaunted, for they had many times seen corpses in their line of work and gossip brought increasingly lurid stories of the last days and weeks with their morbid discoveries.  Sherlock glanced in each crate, no doubt filing away each revelation to later puzzle into a complete body.

A flurry of swearing deeper in the building sent Sherlock and several constables after the sound.  John moved as quickly as he could after the other men, past a wall slapped up between roof supports, only to see a corpse smoking from a dozen contact points with bare wires, flailing, eyes rolling, tongue lolling and finally sitting up before disengaging several of the wires and thudding back onto its marble slab.  It continued to twitch, but much less violently.

The vast machine spouting wires was familiar to John, though this one was much larger and housed half a dozen crackling, spinning wheels.  It was like von Marum's electrostatic generator at the Professor's, though this improved machine may be capable of creating vastly more electricity than its predecessor.  Everyone, even Sherlock, had stopped in gut-wrenching awe, jaws dropped open at the sparking, whirring machine.

"He must have recently been here!" Sherlock declared, recovering first.  "This experiment could not have been abandoned long else the corpse would be nothing but char.  John and I blocked off one exit with our arrival, but there must have been another which was not boarded over."

Sherlock dashed towards the back of the building.

"John, hurry, I have need of you!"

John trotted along after with one last glance at the hideous construction of wires and brass, spurred by the urgency in Sherlock's voice.

"John, look around, tell me what you see."

They emerged on a slightly busier street than Baskerville Road, but it was still mainly wagon traffic as opposed to foot.  Few that passed would give a second look to the warehouse, much less investigate with any curiosity.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Sherlock," John hedged.  He didn't see anything that Sherlock could not see.  "No one is running away.  There is another warehouse across the street, but the entrance on this street is closed…"

"No, John, you see but you do not observe," Sherlock huffed.

"Well, what should I be looking for?"

"Details, John.  Our scientist likely escaped from this door within minutes of our arrival.  Where would he go?  Down the street?  Into another building?  Did he have a horse waiting?  A carriage?  I cannot trust my eyes right now."  Sherlock sounded a bit frantic, prompting John to try his hardest.

"If I hit this door at a run and did not have a carriage waiting for me, I would want to get out of the line of sight as soon as possible.  I'd go that way," John pointed down the street, "and down around that building to disappear from sight."

"Good, John.  Useless, but good."  Sherlock tapped his fingertips together and hummed.

"If you know better, Sherlock, then why did you ask?"

"I need your eyes, John, to confirm what I'm seeing."  Sherlock tugged John a dozen feet.  "Now, do tell me if you see this rut here, or this pile of droppings?  Do you see it steaming?"

"Yes, Sherlock, so what?"  The streets of London were covered with the stuff.

"Well, our scientist is clearly an educated man, and education takes wealth.  A wealthy man, were he to enter this section of London at all, would certainly ensconce himself in a small carriage, perhaps one deliberately dilapidated to help conceal his identity.  A phaeton would attract too much notice, but a simple chaise or curricle would suit his purposes.  These ruts are freshly cut into the muck, and the manure is still steaming in the cold air from a recently present horse.  Given the relative placement of these two clues, it was likely a single horse, not a pair, so a chaise.  Clearly our quarry drove in that direction.  It is useless to try and follow as he would easily blend in with the traffic heading towards London Bridge."

John saw all these things as Sherlock pointed them out, verified them even, but he'd never have drawn the conclusions that Sherlock wove around the facts.

"Astounding," he breathed.  John imagined he saw Sherlock's lips nearly flutter into a smile, but he whipped around too soon.

"I don't believe the scientist meant for us to find him here, or he wouldn't have escaped.  Quite intriguing.  Has the driver said anything?"

"Not a word."

"Fascinating.  I wonder if he can speak, or if such functions of the brain have been lost."  Sherlock led John back inside the building to where the constables were still gaping at the massive contraption and the slightly twitching body attached to it.  Sherlock darted around it for a minute and suddenly shut it down, much to the relief of the simple parish constables unused to such spectacle.  Sherlock began to peer closely at the body and plucked away all the wires so as to absolutely confirm the failure of this experiment.  He brought John in close to confirm that the heart did not beat within the chest.  John checked the body with professionalism, though the condition of the body made it clear that he'd find no signs of life.

It surprisingly took less than an hour for the building to be flooded with constables and several runners from Bow Street, Lestrade included.  Donovan, and a contingent of river police, stopped by to gawk, as well.  Despite his fellows' toughened natures, Donovan was the only one to walk into the building and still have the gall left in his belly to open his bloody mouth.

"Mr. Holmes, did you get tired of your toys, or did you just wish for someone else to clean up after you?"

"Tiresome, Donovan, all my doing, not a real criminal, _et cetera_ , how utterly _blasé_.  Have you been unable to realize the truth by now?  I'm amazed they make a hat for a skull so thick."

"Ah, I see, Holmes, you're showing off for that pretty husband of yours.  Fresh and milk-fed, isn't he?  Don't worry.  Me and my men will be glad to make sure he's not lonely after you've been hauled to the top of the scaffold."

Though he knew that Donovan's remarks were just to provoke him and would never come to pass, Sherlock jerked towards him, his hands curled into fists.  But John stepped up from behind him, unimposing with his gun in a constable's custody and his cane taking some of the weight of his steps.

"I've grappled with a dead man already once today, Mr. Donovan," John offered in a steely tone.  "Care to make it two?"

Donovan raised an eyebrow and sneered at John, who was a head and a half shorter and considerably narrower.

"Don't worry, little man, I like my men to limp afterwards…"

Donovan wasn't expecting the blurry fist that connected with his nose, though he ought to have done considering how many times it had been broken before.  The force was enough to send him to the ground.  Before he could blink away the tears that blurred his vision, (he let the blood flow freely down his chin and onto his shirt,) Lestrade wedged himself between them.

"Sergeant Donovan, if you and your men are not going to be helpful, I believe you have patrols to return to.  I've got enough to do without holding a rag to your face as if you were a snot-nosed brat.  Get your arse back down to the docks and if you don't want blood in it, keep your mouth shut."

Donovan grumbled as he picked himself up, but did as he was told with little more than a glare in Sherlock and John's direction.  John ignored it, wrapping his much-abused handkerchief around his bruised knuckles with enough of a smirk on his lips to make Donovan growl.

Morning turned to afternoon before the investigation turned methodical.  Lestrade took control and sent one of his compatriots to track down the current owner of the building and two others to find and question any possible witnesses about any notable comings and goings on Baskerville Street.  He ordered the local constables to take inventories, mark each crate with chalk indicating the contents, but to remove nothing.  Here was as good a place as any to store the remains for now.  Plus, despite calling upon half the constables of London (regular criminals were going to have a field day) he would like to keep this quiet as long as possible.  Lestrade strode through the building with Sherlock and John, finally witnessing the failed experiment and the giant electrostatic generator.

He peered up at it with a certain mystification.

"What does it do?"

"It creates an electrical charge."

"Why?"

Sherlock was at odds to answer this.  "Why?  Because the human body, our very personal universe, demands investigation just like any other mystery.  The amount of knowledge we lack in this field is mind-boggling.  What we learn could extend our lives, cure infirmity and disease!  Imagine if we could instill life in a fresh corpse by harnessing the mysteries of electricity.  You could simply _ask_ the murdered about their murderer."  Sherlock sounded far too excited about this possibility for someone who would have far fewer puzzles to solve if this became the case.

"I believe some mysteries ought to stay just that, Holmes."  Lestrade was looking at the body on the slab, the one that had ceased to twitch when Sherlock shut down the machine.  "You were inside the building for a period of several minutes and didn't see anyone?"

"No."  There was little else to say, and Sherlock's demeanor dampened with the change in subject.  He'd informed John as the constables were arriving that he did not wish for them to know about the hallucinations, and John had kept to his word, being deliberately vague on the subject.

Lestrade grunted, peering at the corpse with narrowed eyes and a close lantern.  Sherlock ignored him and stalked about taking in every bit of information he could.  John tried to be helpful, looking for any sort of records the scientist might have kept, but found nothing of use.

"The experiments have been going on for some time," Sherlock began.  "The man responsible is quite advanced in his work.  He has improved upon the generator here, and here, compared to the Professor's model, do you remember, John?  I wonder if the thickness or metallurgical content of the wires makes a difference; it must.  I believe these augmentations may allow for a more intense burst of electricity…"

Lestrade interrupted him.  "This is all very fascinating, but we need to know about the culprit.  I haven't even gotten the final number of bodies yet, but this is likely the same man who has been leaving you gifts all over London and I'll like to put a stop to this!"  His voice had risen quickly until he shouted the final three words.

Sherlock was unfazed and simply responded, "Yes."  Then he began pointing out the marks in the sand-strewn floor that had not been trodden over by constables, blown into miniscule dunes by the crosswinds that cooled the enclosed air, nor made by Sherlock himself as he circled close to the machine.

"Two men, one with a slightly slurred step, which could be our driver – we really need to find a name to call him now that he's in custody – Lazarus might be appropriate, don't you think – and another with a smaller stride but very sure.  The second is likely to be our murderer.  Educated, wealthy or a quite industrious thief to procure all this equipment, particularly the marble.  Perhaps we could trace the purchase of such an expensive item to further our investigation.

"The work surfaces are meticulously kept, but the sand on the floor is a bit of a surprise."  Sherlock crouched and picked up a pinch, rubbing it between his fingers, let it drift to the floor.  He touched his fingertip to his tongue, then spit.  "Sand, but mixed with a generous amount of sodium bicarbonate.  That indicates our scientist was working with acids and had either deployed the sodium bicarbonate over a spill or had prepared for such an eventuality well in advance.

"Lestrade, if your stomach is bothering you, you could do worse than to dissolve a pinch of the stuff into a glass of water and drink it."

Lestrade glared at the cause of his heartburn and stopped rubbing his fist into his chest.

"I think we would be better served by interrogating the man who brought you here, especially if you believe he's been walking around inside this building."

"Excellent!  I also wish to administer a thorough exam…"

"Not you.  You and Doctor Watson need to go home and leave this to me.  You've already put yourselves in enough danger."

"Home?  Now, when we're finally getting somewhere?"

"Yes, home.  Your brother would have my head if I let something happen to you, and that's not just a figure of speech.  I'd be served up on a platter like John the Baptist at the next Holmes family event."

Sherlock straightened up and looked at the slightly manic Lestrade calmly.  "It would hardly be dangerous for me to attend Bow Street.  It would also be invaluable for me to hear whatever information the man has firsthand.  Thirdly, I would like to take some samples of the man's blood and tissues for analysis.  He is the only successful resurrection completed by our mad scientist as far as we know and we need to take advantage of that fact to increase our knowledge."

"Holmes, absolutely not.  Am I speaking the King's English?  Are you listening?  You will neither interrogate nor examine our prisoner.  Furthermore, I will not allow you to torture or dissect a man in my custody whether you believe him to be some sort of resurrected monster or not."

"I don't need to dissect him completely, Lestrade.  I simply need a few tissue samples.  You would impede furthering scientific knowledge?"

"I'm impeding your rampant disregard for the prisoner's rights!  Holmes, he's not dead!  I've indulged your deductions thus far, but no longer!"

"Yes, he is!  You see the instrument of his resurrection before you!  The multitude of failed attempts to replicate him!  If that isn't enough to convince you, look to the cut on his neck!  There is no surviving that.  And the wound shows no sign of healing.  If you remove his shirt, I'm certain you'd see where a bullet struck him between the ribs the night he was strangling me.  I'll wager that there's little more than a rough stitch or two to keep the wound from seeping vital fluids, not to mention the fact that he seems to be supremely unaffected by such a mortal wound…"  Now they were both shouting at each other, attracting the curious and disapproving stares of half a dozen men.

"Holmes, he's walking around.  He may even talk yet.  He's not dead.  You can have him when he's still and cold on a slab, but for now, I have to treat him like any other prisoner.  I can't allow you to pick a man apart at the seams on a whim!"

"It's not a whim!"  Sherlock had begun to seethe at the word "indulged," and his temper had passed white hot in forge terms.  "I'm beginning to think that you don't want this solved at all, Lestrade!"

"Holmes, do try to understand.  I believe you, I really do.  But not all of my superiors feel that way and I don't want to be fired, transported, or hanged because I let you experiment on a man in my custody."

"Who is deceased!  And your _belief_ in the truth is irrelevant.  The truth is the truth, whether simple minds can grasp it, or no!"

"Why can I never reason logically with you?  No matter how right I am, no matter what argument I make, I just can't win!  You don't even listen!  I'm done with it, Sherlock Holmes.  You can get the hell out of here while I sort out this mess without your interference for once!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Lestrade exactly where he'd be without Sherlock's 'interference,' but John's voice halted his own.

"Sherlock."  John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's elbow, around the front though, the wrong way, and his other hand stroked circles over his shoulder blade.  "It's no use arguing.  Mr. Lestrade cannot concede on this matter.  We need to give him time to organize this mess.  We'll go home to regroup and form a new plan of action given what we've found today.  The resurrected man is going nowhere.  I'm sure Lestrade will keep the man in custody for questioning, at the very least."

John's presence at his side did not calm Sherlock's ire, but it did incite him to tamp it down a little.  His husband was right in that no amount of shouting at Lestrade would entice him to change his mind; he was as stubborn and obstinately contrary as Sherlock at times, even when he was _wrong._

 


	66. Chapter 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the past two weeks I wrestled with this chapter and I had no idea why I was having such a hard time with it. I knew what was going to happen, had lots of scribbles about how to accomplish these things, but something wasn't working. I cut; I rewrote;I pieced things together by hand; I tried everything and it still didn't seem right. I started feeling like it was the chapter from Hell. It is only as I finish it tonight that I realize it was so difficult because it was so LONG. Like 2-4 normal chapters long. And so my problem was getting somewhere in the realm of 4800+ words right all at the same time. Plus I had not-quite-vacation brain going. I was a mess. :) Started vacation today and voila, I have a chapter to post where I really, really earn my rating. No teasing. Promise. :)
> 
> Except I should never make promises because didn't I promise that this would be up two weeks ago? Dammit. :o)

Sherlock alternately raved and sulked the entire way home, filling the enclosed carriage with his unfettered indignation.  Nothing John said helped matters.  He offered his coat since Sherlock had long been without his and could be cold, but Sherlock shrugged him off.  John's suggestions of other avenues of investigation or stopping for a meal were rebuffed with chill rage.  He even jokingly offered to be the padded dummy so Sherlock could teach him the rudiments of fencing.  Sherlock's rebuff was so scathing, John's face heated and he ceased trying.  Silence reigned somewhere in the vicinity of St. Paul's.  Each kept to his thoughts for the long remainder of their journey home.

Sherlock burst in the door upon arrival and shot directly up to the first floor, leaving his tight-sleeved jacket at the foot of the stairs to be picked up by Matthews after collecting John's greatcoat.  It took John a minute to work off his tight gloves; his left hand had swollen.  Donovan must have a face made of stone, and he'd fought the driver as well.  The leather gloves had protected his hands somewhat, but the force of the blows had bruised his knuckles. 

By the time John had hobbled to the bottom step, tall boots exchanged for comfortable leather shoes, strains of mutilated violin began to shatter down to the ground floor.  After a few minutes of random notes, Sherlock began to systematically abuse the strings in a shrieking, Hellish version of scales.  John paused a moment, equally annoyed and worried; Sherlock had never played anything but beautifully in his presence.  Was this how he expressed upset?  That ought to prove vexatious.

"Oh, dear, was it a bad day?"  Mrs. Hudson came bustling forth from the kitchen, spied John hesitating at the foot of the stairs.  "Oh heavens, look at you.  Blood on your face and your collar, and where is your cravat?  Come back to the kitchen and I'll set you to rights in a jiffy.  No, don't you dare give me that 'I'm a doctor' look, young man.  It's best to leave Mr. Holmes to his sulk awhile anyway."

Mrs. Hudson fed John and tended to his minor wounds with warm water and magnesium salts.  His mood was buoyed by the older woman's good cheer and apparent motherly adoration of Sherlock, as well as a healthy helping of jam tarts.  Still, his leg stiffened after the lazy hour being pampered in the warm kitchen; and he thought if it got much worse, he might not make it up the stairs at all.  John hoisted himself up from the straight-backed wooden chair with a bit of a groan.

"Well, I'm going to beard the dragon in his den, Mrs. Hudson.  Send tea up with Matthews, please, and a few of the tarts, and I'll see what I can do about Sherlock."

John had been sitting too long and his bad leg was practically numb, but he ground his teeth and stretched the weary muscles.  When he felt up to it, he headed to the stairs; but of course, the minute he stepped out of the kitchen, and certainly as he ascended the steps, Sherlock's so-called playing increased in volume.  John mused that the catgut must be remembering its former life, yowling a stray song atop a fence.

"Sherlock!" John shouted to be heard over the cacophony that vigorously assaulted him upon reaching their upper sitting room.

"I'm thinking, John," Sherlock shouted back, not pausing his vigorous bowing.  John only caught a quarter of Sherlock's ensuing bitter condemnation of Lestrade, Bow Street, London magistrates, punctuated as it was with variously pitched shrieks from the violin.

"You're brooding very loudly, Sherlock.  Do sit and have tea, or read, or, heaven forbid, even experiment if you must.  You'll drive the servants and neighbors to madness."

Sherlock drew the bow down the length of the strings, the instrument issuing forth an annoyed groan.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm already mad, you see," John replied.

Sherlock ignored him, moving to the window and energetically playing a discordant piece that at least vaguely resembled a melody.  John decided that was a tolerable compromise.  He went to his room and collected the wooden case that contained his cleaning set.  He laid out the items he would need and when Matthews arrived with the tea tray, John sent him back down to fetch his pistol from his greatcoat.

"Do sit and share these tarts with me, Sherlock.  I believe Mrs. Hudson has a nefarious plan to fatten me up that we must thwart."  John smiled at Sherlock's back, but received no response.  "Tea?  Everything is improved with tea?"  Sherlock might have sighed but it was hard to hear over the inharmonious notes.

Matthews returned and handed John the gun with care, though with no lack of familiarity. 

"I could do that, sir, if you wish."

"No, thank you.  I prefer to do it myself.  That will be all." 

John was glad the constable had returned his weapon before he and Sherlock had left.  The methodical cleaning process was comforting and the smell of the gun oil reminded him of his father, who had always taught him to take care of his weapons for one day his life could depend on them.  John's life had depended on his pistol several times, and Sherlock's twice now as well.  John went through the well-practiced motions of cleaning and oiling the pistol, and after a thought, loaded it again.

When John was done, and the items properly put away, he returned to their shared sitting room.  The frenzied playing was almost pleasant now, though not exactly relaxing.  Still, the noise and clatter of another life in the house was more than companionable.  Even if Sherlock wouldn't talk to him, he felt a lot less lonely than he had in a long time.

John paused at the bookshelves during a turn about the room, considering what he might find interesting enough to hold his thoughts through Sherlock's playing (brooding).  He pulled out what looked to be a medical text on rare diseases only to flip it open and find the title page written over with a bold, "Wrong!"  John smirked; this would certainly prove to be entertaining.  He perused the pages, case histories of unexplained deaths, bizarre symptoms, but Sherlock had crossed out many of the conclusions and scribbled in, "Poison – arsenic," "Poison – hemlock, obvious" or "aspiration pneumonia due to botched asphyxiation by cheating husband; honestly, did no one check his shoes?"

John sat in his chair by the fireplace, bad leg propped up on a little footstool and angled towards the fire, and paged through the book.  He played a game with himself, trying to read each study as a puzzle and see if he could predict Sherlock's written-in diagnosis.  Between each section, he stood and circled the room slowly twice.  It was entertaining for an hour or so, until Matthews appeared to light the lamps and stoke the fire.

Matthews vanished downstairs immediately after, probably wondering just how John could stand to remain in the room when Sherlock's playing was so deliberately atrocious.  John considered many ways to get Sherlock out of his foul mood, including shouting him down in his Captain voice, breaking the violin and throwing it into the street hopefully to be put out of its misery by a passing horse and carriage, and physically throwing Sherlock down on the rug and shagging the annoyance from the man.

John let a little smile play on his lips; the third option did have merit.  Sherlock had been playing without pause for a good two hours.  Despite his state of semi-undress, (wearing neither a proper jacket nor his quilted banyan,) he was glowing and the hair curling over his neck cloth was damp.  And without his coattails to obscure it, his plush arse was on display.  John watched him play in his petulance, moving with emphatic gestures and sweeps of the bow.  Had the music been of a more tolerable tone, John would have been completely entranced by the sway of his body, the set of his shoulders, the arch of his back.

"Sherlock."

"What is it, John?" Sherlock replied with no little exasperation, flinging his bow out to one side and whirling to face his husband. 

"Does that sound like proper music to you?" John enquired quite seriously.  "I only ask because I'd like to ascertain whether or not you were still being adversely affected by the chemicals in the warehouse."

"I am unaltered.  The distortions in my vision and hearing returned to the normal range before we left the warehouse," Sherlock answered with flat certainty.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Sherlock turned away and, after a few limbering movements, put bow to strings yet again.  He resumed playing but his agonized exuberance was muted.  The notes he wrung from the violin were long and pure as if he intended to draw out a two minute piece into ten.  John even thought that he recognized the piece. 

John abandoned the book on his lap, though he idly turned pages without looking at them.  He shifted in his chair to more comfortably watch his husband.  He could admit that he felt more than just attraction to this man – there was quite a bit of affection.  But Sherlock eschewed his touch more often than not, leaving John uncertain as to how to approach him.  He pictured himself pressing against that long, straight back as Sherlock played, feeling the ropey muscles move against his chest.  He could press his nose just under the curls at Sherlock's nape – surely he was tall enough to reach – and John could memorize what Sherlock smelled like, tasted like.

John remembered their abbreviated kiss earlier that morning and sighed.  Not more than a tease, a touch, a warm feeling that lingered.  How long would it be before Sherlock would kiss him like that again?  What would it take to distract Sherlock from his pique, from his mysteries, and entice him to display some proof that he did indeed desire John in return?

Would it work if John was pressed against his back, if John stroked his hands over Sherlock's hips?  He saw his thumbs finding the little hollows above Sherlock's buttocks and his fingertips curling around to brush his pelvic bone.  Then if he slid his hands forward just a bit, he'd find the gap in the fall of his trousers; he could tease his fingers along the edge of the fabric, slip them inside.

Maybe this would distract Sherlock from his violin.  Maybe he'd have to stop playing, need to lean back into John's embrace.  Maybe John would press the erection he was developing into that arse, discern whether it was soft and lush or tightly muscled.  Maybe Sherlock would open that gorgeous mouth of his and utter a moan in that honey-rich baritone of his.

John _heard_ that moan.  His eyes leapt back into focus as he realized the sound had been a long, low note drawn from the violin, but also that Sherlock had turned and was considering him carefully.

"We could do worse things with this insipid afternoon than consummate our marriage, John."

"I beg your pardon?" John sputtered, when he should have just stood and said, 'God, yes.'  What was wrong with him? 

"You heard me.  I do loathe repeating myself, John."

John had heard, but he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating.  Could Sherlock read his mind?  The way those eyes penetrated him, John had little doubt that he could.  "Right now?"

"You've been watching me, John, for at least a quarter of an hour.  And your thoughts have been of an increasingly lascivious nature."

John wasn't surprised to be caught out in his lingering admiration for Sherlock's backside.  Had it really been that long, though, that John had been lost in his fantasy about his husband?

"How…?" he stuttered, with just a hint of blush.

"The windowpanes reflect nearly as well as mirrors as the darkness falls outside and the lamps are lit within.  It was quite elementary to observe your attention.  And the way you're shifting the book in your lap is a rather schoolboy method for hiding evidence of an erection."

"Ah, well, I suppose I'll have to learn to be more discreet."  John's face deepened in color.

"Don't bother."

John wasn't certain what Sherlock meant by that, whether he needn't bother because he could not hide from Sherlock's heightened awareness or if Sherlock simply didn't mind.

Sherlock reached for a cloth from his violin case and began to wipe down his violin.  He laid the instrument in its case with care then proceeded to wipe down and loosen his bow as well.  John took this to mean he was not playing any more tonight.  The heavy quiet beat in his ears.  Or maybe that was his thundering pulse.

"So by your lack of refusal, am I to understand you would be willing?"

John shivered at Sherlock's sly tone of voice.  It would have been seductive, if he wasn't so inclined to bluntness.  Of course he was willing, but…  

"Have I not properly expressed my resolve to not neglect you carnally, no matter what my intentions previous to our introduction might have been?"

John's blush spread to his ears and down his neck.  Even the small of his back felt suddenly hot.  A pulse of blood ignited those "neglected" areas to fresh awareness.

"John."

When had Sherlock gotten so close?  And since when did firelight reflect in his dark hair like that, giving him red and umber highlights?  Those eyes, though, they were the same, piercing John with their uncanny precision.

Close, so close.

Good God, Sherlock was going to his knees.  In front of John.  Moving the book to the floor.  Sliding his hands up John's thighs.  If John hadn't been hard before, the intensity in Sherlock's eyes, focused on him and intending… intending to…

Sherlock's fingers found the buttons to John's trousers, deftly working to open the placket and bring John out right here, right now. 

John's hands covered Sherlock's forcefully stilling them.

"I thought you wanted this.  This morning you said…" 

"God, Sherlock, I do, but are you sure you're ready?"  Was John imagining that Sherlock sounded slightly dejected underneath all that frustration?

"We are neither of us simpering misses, John.  We don't need to wait for some poetic moment.  You are quite obviously aroused and it will distract my mind from the events of earlier quite effectively."

"Well, some brilliant man did say I was exceedingly distracting."  John's voice, as well as his attempt at humor, was weak.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with just a hint of a smile.  His hands resumed their efforts.  John almost lost his conviction at the warmth of Sherlock's hand cupping over his cock as the other disengaged two buttons.  And then he squeezed just a little.

"Sherlock, not like this, on your knees," John gasped.  "Please, I want more."

Sherlock blinked up at John, studying him, the question 'More? I'm offering everything,' obvious in the tilt of his eyebrows.  John let go of Sherlock's hands, moving one of his own to curl around the back of Sherlock's neck, stroking behind Sherlock's ear with his thumb.  John shifted in his chair, leaned forward, and pulled Sherlock's mouth to his.  The kiss itself was simple, a press of lips slightly parted, breath mingling.

"Let me take you to bed, Sherlock.  Let me pleasure you, kiss you, touch you."  John would have given anything to know what thoughts flew through Sherlock's mind in the minute before he rose gracefully to his feet. 

"Very well, John."  Sherlock took up a taper and went ahead to light the two lamps in John's bedroom.  Their bedroom.

By the time John struggled to his feet and followed, made awkward by an unflagging erection and half-unfastened trousers, the room was glowing.  The soft light would look quite well on Sherlock's bare skin.  The thought almost made John stumble.

Sherlock kicked his shoes off before crawling onto John's bed.  Their bed.  He sat against the headboard, plumping a pillow behind his back.  His eyes never stopped watching John, who divested himself of his coat and waistcoat.  Sherlock's fingers hovered above his own buttons, fussing with them rather than unfastening them.  That was fine.  John made himself as comfortable next to Sherlock as he could, straightening out his bad leg and curling the other around for balance.  John noticed that Sherlock had chosen the far side of the bed, which would allow John to lie on his uninjured side facing Sherlock.

John wrapped a hand around one of Sherlock's, pulling it to his lips and lightly kissing each knuckle.  When he was done, he guided that hand around his waist, leaning in closer.  He stroked the fine brocade of Sherlock's waistcoat from shoulder to just below his ribcage, feeling Sherlock's heartbeat below his fingertips.  John couldn't believe he was allowed to touch this man, that somehow, unbelievably, this man wanted him in return. 

It took both his hands to unknot Sherlock's cravat, but before he finished, Sherlock's lips were upon his and John forgot momentarily how to untie a knot, unfasten a button, and breathe.  Sherlock's lips pressed against John's with a violent desperation very unlike the languid passion of the morning.  John held his own, though he needed to clutch Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself. 

The kiss eased in pressure and John took the opportunity to nip and suck at Sherlock's plush lower lip.  Sherlock's tongue joined the game and John felt a thrill at the gentle tasting that shot all the way down his spine.  He surged up against Sherlock, one hand tangling itself in the damp curls at Sherlock's nape.

Sherlock dragged his lips away, leaving John to pant as he pressed his nose and mouth into John's open collar – John had not replaced his lost neck cloth, feeling no need of it in the privacy of their own home.  The exuberant attack on his neck, the licks on his collarbone, the nips on the skin under his jaw introduced a few soft gasps into the quiet.

Sherlock rent John's shirt open instead of sparing the moment it would take to sweep the fabric over his head.  John sighed, though even he wasn't sure whether this was caused by the loss of a perfectly good shirt or the glorious way Sherlock was sucking a mark onto his neck just _there._ It didn't occur to him until Sherlock paused that his husband had suddenly become aware that it wasn't only John's leg that was scarred.

"John, how did you survive?" Sherlock murmured into the thick scar tissue that crawled up from his hip and up to his bottom rib.  His tongue followed one of the pink ribbons, making John shiver.  "Can I see all of it?"

John didn't particularly think Sherlock found the scarring attractive, intriguing maybe, but neither did he seem disturbed by it.  He may as well be allowed to see all of it.  John pushed his braces off his shoulders and tugged his destroyed shirt off.  Sherlock's hands were at the buttons of his falls again; then he urged John to lift his hips so he could tug the trousers and smallclothes down.

Soon John was naked, doubly so under Sherlock's blatant appraisal.  He ought to have been chilled, naked in a cold bed, but he felt nothing but rushing heat when calloused fingertips traced each mark of his healed wound.

John opened his mouth to make a comment about how ugly the scars were, but Sherlock grumbled, "Be quiet, John," before he could speak.  John was quiet, then, watching Sherlock's face as the man memorized every whorl and twist where the stitching had been rough and hasty.  Sherlock pushed John onto his back to accomplish this, leaning over him still fully clothed.

"It's incredible, John," he breathed.  "There are spots where the line is so delicate one might have carved your clay with a knife."  Sherlock ran his tongue along one of these places, just beneath John's ribcage.  It tickled and John twitched, making Sherlock hum.  He ran his mouth down over John's waist, where he could barely feel anything, and over to just below John's navel, where he most definitely felt everything.

When he pulled back, John groaned.

"You said you didn't want my mouth on you, John."

And if Sherlock's tone wasn't so matter-of-fact, John might have thought he was being deliberately teased.

"Perhaps I've changed my mind."  John's voice was low and a bit gruff, but it caused Sherlock to smile.

"I had no idea you were so changeable, John."  Sherlock finished unfastening his cravat with adroit fingers, tossing it to the floor before slipping out of his braces and untucking his shirt.  John watched Sherlock tug it over his head with avid interest, the long, narrow torso stretching overhead.  Sherlock exaggerated the movement as if he noticed John looking, but of course John would look.  Sherlock was simply stunning.

"You ought to be a statue in a museum."

"If I were, I suspect you'd be arrested for indecently groping priceless works of art in public."

John laughed, surprised at Sherlock's joke.

"I like your laugh."  Sherlock rushed now, rolling away to divest himself of all clothing below the waist.  When he returned, he pressed up against John's side and kissed his still-smiling mouth with fervor.  John let his hands explore since Sherlock wasn't patient enough to let John investigate with his eyes.   He found a smooth chest with sparse soft hairs in a diamond shape in the center.  He found flat nipples that pebbled up as soon as his palm brushed over them; a bit of gentle attention there made Sherlock's dexterous kisses stutter.

Further explorations revealed a flat stomach with a thin line of hair leading down after circling his navel.  John curled his hand around the narrow waist, searching for and finding that lush arse.  Taut and muscular as if he rode horses all day, every day, it gave his backside an alluring curve.  John pulled Sherlock more atop him, so he could squeeze with both hands.  Sherlock gasped, his muscles clenching under John's grasp, and pressed his hips tighter against John's.  This made them both groan.

John could feel his husband's cock hard against his own and he shifted his hips to introduce a bit of friction.  Sherlock took up the movement, the gentle rub and pressure desperately wonderful.  John pushed his hips up while pulling Sherlock closer, lost in kisses and the sultry heat of Sherlock's body.

"Wait, John, wait," Sherlock gasped, rolling away.  John blinked, bereft and lust-blown, but Sherlock was only reaching for a nearby drawer to pull out a small jar.  It was the same small jar John had left with Sherlock during his unfortunate dosing with an aphrodisiac.  The contents were somewhat depleted, but there was enough for _this_.

Sherlock opened the jar but now John stopped him instead.

"Not yet.  It doesn't taste as good as it smells."  The glint in John's eye stopped Sherlock cold.

John pushed Sherlock down onto his back and kissed him again because kissing Sherlock was simply irresistible.  But having Sherlock splayed on his back beneath him was even more inviting, and he wanted to know every inch of him.  John's lips moved downward.  The dip between his collarbones was sensitive to a flick of tongue.  He was a bit ticklish around the sixth and seventh ribs, but only on his left.  A fingertip tracing a straight path south from the navel was a surefire way to get his cock to twitch, as was a deliberate lick along the underside.

Sherlock may have been passive, allowing John to do as he wished, but that did not mean he was unresponsive.  He murmured his appreciation for John's dedication to detail, and offered little suggestions of preferences when he liked something out of the norm such as being bitten along the curve of his pectoralis major.  Those whispers and soft moans, that voice alone, served to make _John's_ cock twitch.  So when John worked Sherlock's foreskin back with his tongue and lips, and Sherlock twitched upwards with a rugged groan, John couldn't help but grasp his own cock and give it a few firm tugs.

Sherlock was salty and musky and John wanted to dive into that scent, taste him everywhere. Sherlock obligingly lifted his knee, fully exposing his bollocks and darker places and John's tongue adventured lower.

"If you don't take me into your mouth extremely soon, John, my prick shall permanently turn to stone as if a Gorgon spied me."

"I love the strain in your voice when you are desperate," John chuckled, but shifted to do the task requested.  Sherlock's cock was flushed pink, long but of a comfortable girth for John's mouth, with a flared head that just begged for a tongue to swirl around the smoothness of it.  John did so, lapping up the pre-ejaculate as if it were the last drop of jam on the spoon.  Using his hand to control depth and speed, John moved his mouth down the shaft.

Effusive gasps and moans rewarded each downward movement as John took him progressively deeper.  It wasn't long before a ragged breath and a hand tugging his short hair warned him to pull back.  He did, but only to look at Sherlock sprawled before him, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, lips parted, chest heaving, and bollocks pulled up tight to the base of a florid prick, glossy with saliva.  He had been right; the lamplight did favor Sherlock's bare skin.

Only when Sherlock had calmed a bit did John slick up his hand with the contents of the jar and straddle Sherlock's thighs.  He rubbed the cream along his own shaft, a darker shade than Sherlock's, and enjoyed the look in Sherlock's eyes as he watched hungrily.  When John scooped up a little more of the cream, Sherlock held out his hand and John slicked up his fingers, giving each digit the same attention he shortly gave Sherlock's cock.  They fumbled to get their grips just right, but soon they were both snug in a cage of fingers and slick heat.  John used his upper position to rock his hips, thrusting into their grip; the pair of them found a rhythm that would be quick to bring about release.  For all John's desire to prolong the experience, every nerve in his body was singing for the apex of it all; Sherlock wordlessly agreed.  Sherlock's free hand wrapped around and clutched John's arse, fingertips slipping into the crease between, finding just the right spots to rub as he encouraged their pace. 

Sherlock tensed first, grip tightening and his movements becoming frenetic.  The arch of his long white neck at the height of his pleasure was simply breathtaking.  John was compelled to bite it.

"Yes, Sherlock, yes, let yourself go," John hummed into the crook of that gorgeous neck, as if he wasn't going to be pulled over the edge himself the second Sherlock spilled over their fingers.

A wordless cry, several sharp movements, and Sherlock's prick emptied itself onto Sherlock's belly and John's fingers.  The hot fluid, Sherlock's flushed and sweaty skin, the throbbing shaft still pressed tight to his made John push forward twice more before spilling and mixing his seed with Sherlock's.

They didn't move for a few moments, couldn’t move.  Sherlock's hand fell lifelessly to his stomach, apparently carefree about in what it landed.  John caught his breath leaning over Sherlock, braced on both hands pressed to the mattress on either side of Sherlock's shoulders.  Sherlock's eyes were closed and John managed to surprise him with a lingering kiss.

"Let me get a flannel to clean you up with, love.  Don't move."  John shifted off Sherlock, perching on the side of the bed.  The flannels and water were across the room, but John had forgotten about his cane for the moment.  He still limped, but he made it to the washbasin, washed himself, and came back without needing his cane for balance.  "Sorry, it's cold."  He cleaned Sherlock's hand and stomach before flinging the cloth back towards the washbasin where it landed with a bit of a splash.  He crawled back into the bed and made himself comfortable on his back.  One arm curled up over his head; the one nearest Sherlock took the other man's hand in his.

"Did that clear your mind enough to nap a few minutes?" 

Sherlock blinked back at him owlishly as John raised his hand and kissed the back of his wrist. 


	67. Chapter 67

John napped next to him, flushed and looking well-loved.  He was naked, blanket and sheet pooled around his waist, one arm sprawled over his head.  Sherlock admired the fine blond hairs scattered over his chest, the thicker, light brown tuft on display under his arm, the lines his muscles created under his skin, the curve of his side from shoulder to waist.  He wanted to lay hands on this man, to touch him, needed to feel that golden skin against his own, but he didn't want to wake him.  His hand hovered over John's ribcage, the ridge of his pectoral muscle, his clavicle, but Sherlock pulled his hand back with a twinge of worry.  A caress along his ribs might tickle; Sherlock wanted to watch him sleep undisturbed. 

Sherlock examined John's face, taking in every line etched by his adult years.  John wasn't so terribly much older than Sherlock, but he'd had years at war and months of injury and illness.  Even strands of his blond hair were starting to silver, Sherlock knew, though in the yellow lamplight, his hair glinted softly like ancient gold.  It was softer, finer than Sherlock had surmised, and even now he wished to stroke his fingers through the tousled strands.

Sherlock's eyes followed the line of John's jaw, lightly stubbled, to his lips; lips that would be unspectacular if it hadn't been for their easy ability to curve into a smile.  Smiles took over John's entire face, his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead.  When John smiled at Sherlock, it was as intoxicating as any chemical concoction Sherlock had ever experienced.

When John had leaned forward to kiss him, Sherlock opened all the doors that lead down halls of pleasure in his head.  Things he wanted to do with John, to John, within John, flooded out from where he'd hidden the knowledge.  He'd hidden the memories so well from himself that sometimes he'd felt innocent.  Once he started remembering, though, he'd considered putting it all away again, so he'd be innocent again with John.  Every touch would be the first, every experience new and amazing.

It was like that anyway.  Something about the way John kissed him, caressed him, was unique. 

Kissing, kissing had never been so… pleasant was such an understatement even if Sherlock hesitated to use _glorious_ – glorious in the earliest meaning, the all-encompassing shining light of God and Love and everything.  Glorious, such a ridiculously overblown concept but Sherlock didn't want to slight kissing John, not one bit.  Glorious.  It wasn't the technical proficiency, the hard-earned skill, the way his lips tasted of sweet jam and tea; it was a sort of tangible, palpable emotion imbued into the act.  Glorious.  Sherlock felt stunned by the passion in a way he'd never known.  Glorious.  If he never climaxed again, he would be content with kissing John.  He was utterly lost in it.  How could that happen?  Who was John to possess such… such innate warmth?  Surely not everyone was capable of such a thing, not with the grief and murder and harm he saw every day.  And certainly no one he'd ever kissed before had been capable of it.  Lust was lust and love was… a nonentity. 

Love had never been a worry, a consideration.  Sherlock had never believed he was capable of such a thing and those around him had not served to inspire further introspection.  Love – it had always been a ridiculous illusion at best, a fanciful fallacy, or a dangerous Achilles hell at worst, a deplorable blindness.  Sherlock was aware that he was capable of lusting, want, desire, no matter his resolution to deny it.  _When_ he'd proven able to deny it, before John.

John stirred, lashes fluttering as if he was waking.  He turned towards Sherlock, reached out.  Sherlock allowed his body to be captured, tugged against that warm skin.  John's arm curled around his waist and his nose buried itself in the curve of Sherlock's neck.  Sherlock's fingers alighted uncertainly on John's shoulder and arm in return.  He closed his eyes but could not, would not sleep.  He concentrated on the warmth of rhythmic exhalations on his clavicle, the brush of John's hair beneath his chin, the exact points of contact between him and this man.  For all that he was a naturally observant person, he'd never been so aware of another before.

Sherlock considered what he knew of John.  Parents, deceased.  Brother, more or less estranged since the wedding and a troubled relationship before.  Extended family?  None Sherlock knew of.  No letters had arrived for John alone.  Most of their wedding-related post had been from the Holmes family and Mycroft's acquaintances.  John had not been consulted on the guest list, but surely Sir Harold would have invited someone if any family members were nearby.  Friends?  John seemed readily friendly with Lestrade and he presented as an amiable man.  Surely he'd have had friends in service.  Must have lost contact with most of them due to shame over financial difficulties, his prolonged illness after injury, the remoteness of the endless countryside.

Sherlock entertained the thought briefly that he ought to encourage John's friendship with Lestrade or Cousin Petrina, or that Stamford from St. Bart's John had seemed to know.  But a disquieting pang in the hollow spaces in his chest made him rethink the idea.  John would surely find a person he liked better than Sherlock, someone with whom he preferred spending time, someone who wouldn't foul their communal air with petulance and anger.  That outcome was unacceptable.  Sherlock shook away the thought, for it wrapped around within his chest and squeezed until he could not draw breath.

But if Sherlock couldn't treat him the way he so clearly deserved, someone else would.  John was a good man, better than anyone Sherlock had ever met.  What could he have possibly done to be abandoned to Sherlock's dubious mercy?  Why was he so alone?

He was not alone.  He had Sherlock, did he not?  Or at least Sherlock had him.  John did stay even when Sherlock had treated him with bitter words and silence in the carriage, much less of which had chased away any other person.  John had climbed the stairs in the face of aural torture and remained steadfast, though he had made several attempts to modulate Sherlock's behavior.  And he'd been successful.  Sherlock burrowed through the slight haze that still remained in his brain and suspected he might even be feeling shame for his behavior.  He'd felt it sometimes when his mind was clearing from whatever drug Victor had provided, but another dose, another drink always cleared that unwelcome feeling away.

Now the only mind-altering exploit he wanted to take part in was kissing John.

Their brief kiss in Irene's foyer – Sherlock had never given an impromptu kiss that he _meant_ in his life – had stunned them both.  He'd never kissed out of affection – he wasn't sure he'd ever experienced the meaning of the word.  Had opening himself to the much-disdained act of matrimony somehow invalidated all his other beliefs, that conceding to one meant he was secretly hoping for love, that abhorrent soppiness?  Perhaps he should have married Victor or Irene, or any of the millions of people that were not John.  John wanted love and affection and someone to share a life with and Sherlock was not succeeding in his protests against such things. 

John deserved… and that was where all his arguments against broke down.  John deserved so much better than he got and Sherlock wanted to give it to him.  Sherlock was thinking of John, thinking of John's wants and desires and putting those wants ahead of his own.  Of course, it was still for the most selfish reasons possible – Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of John finding happiness and comfort with someone else, even if it meant melting down his metal to remake an edge that wouldn't cut John.  And while he professed to believe in neither divine blessings nor luck, John truly was both. 

"Did you rest at all, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, annoyed with himself for being once again struck dumb.  John gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.  If he hadn't yet comprehended that Sherlock had spent the last hour alternately memorizing John and toiling within his own mind, he would soon.

"Come down here."  John tugged him down into the covers, tucking him against his side so that John's fingers could stroke through his tangled curls.  "I've seen you sleep only once since I've known you, Sherlock.  You need to rest."  Nimble fingers began combing through his hair, rubbing along his scalp.  It was surprisingly pleasant.

"I've slept more than once, John."

"Hmm, I'm not sure I believe that."  John's contradictory opinion on this rumbled through his chest and Sherlock pressed his cheek tighter to him to feel it.  "So, in lieu of sleep, will you tell me how you knew about the letters, Sherlock?"

"What letters?"  How was Sherlock supposed to think about letters of any sort, except the ones he might draw on John's body with his fingers or tongue?  Sherlock found himself outlining the Greek alphabet on the soft skin of John's belly before he realized the ridiculousness of it.

John didn't seem to notice or mind.

"Lady Adler's letters, the ones you said she stole."

"Oh, those.  I didn't.  Good guess, though, wasn't it?  I could tell she was hiding something.  What else would it be?  I would not know jewels and money were not her own, nor was there anyone but her own servants in her apartments.  As I mentioned, the Prince Regent has been blackmailed before, with letters he wrote proclaiming his love to an actress in his youth.  He later attempted to marry a Catholic woman, despite both law and Crown.  So we have a man, profligate with sentiment, and a woman eager to keep herself in style.  It was a logical conclusion."

"Amazing."  And just as he had done when Sherlock had tricked Lady Adler into fleeing, John began to chuckle.  Sherlock lifted his head to watch and his lips curved into a smile as if laughter was catching.  "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I simply do not like that woman," John said when his amusement had faded.  "I suppose I am jealous, for she has a history with you, years of acquaintance, and I barely know you.  And I want to know you."

_You shouldn't,_ Sherlock thought.  Then he was afraid he'd actually said that aloud.  He kissed John's chest just once, lightly, which would be an appropriate gesture in either case.

"I want to thank you for this day, Sherlock."

"You don't have to thank me, John," Sherlock said a little stiffly. 

"I don't mean for this.  Or, well, not just for this."  John was flushed and flustered again.  He cleared his throat.  "I meant for all of today.  Waking in your arms, going on quite the unexpected adventure.  Granted, a slightly more soothing musical interlude would have been appreciated, but you've made it up to me quite nicely, I must say, though I wouldn't mind being made up to a little more."

The lilting tone of his voice made Sherlock jerk his head up to catch John smiling so irresistibly.  John reached up to stroke his thumb along Sherlock's lower lip.  Please him, yes, that was something Sherlock could do.  He turned and shifted, deliberately sliding his bare chest against John's as he ascended to capture John's lips.

 


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive!! :)
> 
> This is a shorter, somewhat fluffy chapter since I've been MIA lately. I have been working on my Sherlock and the Huntsman story and this one ended up on hiatus. It seemed like a good place to leave it a while, with the boys somewhat happily in bed and content to remain that way for the time being. I have a good chunk of the next chapter done (I've said that before, lies, all lies!) as it was going to be part of this chapter, but the break seemed natural so I thought I'd post this part early since the next section needs a bit of work yet.
> 
> Enjoy!

John flipped Sherlock onto his back and made himself comfortable half-atop his husband.  He insinuated one leg between Sherlock's and came into contact with Sherlock's growing appreciation for the abrupt change in position.  Sherlock kissed him energetically in return, lifting his head off the pillow to increase the agility of his movements.  When his head dropped dramatically back to the bed, John took the opportunity to move his lips down that elegant white neck.  Sherlock groaned, but it was not the sort of groan John wanted to wring from his husband.

Then John heard the timid knock.  Sherlock must have heard the footsteps approaching the door.  John mused that he was so kiss drunk that if Sherlock hadn't ceased his participation, their room could have been infiltrated with a _peloton_ of French soldiers before he took notice.

"What is it, Matthews?" Sherlock shouted in an obviously exasperated tone.  He wrapped his arms around John, forbidding his attempt at retreat.  John grinned at the shiver that trickled down his spine as those long, lean arms tugged him close and resumed the warm, wet kisses under Sherlock's jaw.

The footman's voice was most apologetic as he cleared his throat and relayed his message through the door.

"Mr. Holmes, I was informed that any message from Mr. Lestrade superseded everything, even… sleep."

"Read it to me," Sherlock barked.  John could feel Sherlock was no longer responding to his ministrations, so he shifted off him even though Sherlock hadn't really let him go.  John soothed his husband's disgruntlement with a few gentle kisses on his shoulder before rolling to his back and stretching his leg.  He knew that despite what they'd been in the middle of, Sherlock would be keen to resume his investigations.  It would be prudent to prepare for that eventuality.

Lestrade's terse note informed Sherlock that the body which had been hooked up to the machine in the warehouse had been removed to the morgue and Anderson was unwilling to examine it even in the most cursory manner.  He indicated that if Sherlock, and perhaps even John, were willing to continue to assist, Lestrade may be able to accompany them to the cell holding the supposedly-resurrected driver for the purpose of interrogation.  Matthews stated that the word interrogation had been underlined twice. 

"Honestly, if only the man could control his temper, we wouldn't have wasted the afternoon."

John paused with his hands gripping his thigh to pull his bad leg close to his chest.  "Wasted?"

"In terms of the speed of the investigation, yes, John.  I do not mean it to reflect upon your performance.  Our carnal interaction was quite gratifying, if one must waste an afternoon."  John interpreted this as he should not be insulted and continued to flex his leg to warm up the tight muscles.  Sherlock's eyes flickered over his naked, contorted body.

"Shall I send a reply?"  Matthews' voice was hesitant.

"Unnecessary, as we shall be there forthwith."  But Sherlock did not seem anxious to rise; in fact, he shifted closer to John and curled his long fingers around John's upraised thigh.

"I thought we were dressing and heading to St. Bart's."  John couldn't help but smile.  The warm feeling of arousal had lingered even through Matthews' interruption.

"We have time.  Lestrade cannot proceed without me."  Sherlock ducked around so that he was positioned between John's legs, the scarred one resting now on his shoulder.  John's slightly receding erection returned with force as Sherlock looked up at him while wetting his lips.

"Matthews is waiting at the door," John reminded Sherlock, flushing.

"So?"  Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John before taking the head of John's prick into his hot mouth.  His glib tongue proved well-suited towards the intimate act, managing to swirl and undulate against all the most sensitive areas.  John felt the gasps were thrust out of his mouth by the intense spikes of pleasure coursing through him.  John tried to hold back, should have been able to since he'd climaxed so recently, but the sight of Sherlock's dark, tousled head bobbing between his legs was the most overwhelming display he'd ever witnessed.  John was incapable, even, of closing his eyes or looking away.  It wasn't long before that skilled mouth had him spilling vehemently and without warning like an untried youth.  Sherlock didn't seem surprised; perhaps he'd discerned the warning signs as he swallowed without faltering or coughing.

John sank back into the bed, unaware of how the pleasurable tension had tightly clenched his muscles until release made them go lax.  His mind buzzed, pleasantly empty, until Sherlock hastily removed himself from the bed and began to reassemble his clothing.

"You don't need release?"

It was apparent that Sherlock was still half-hard as he tucked himself away into his drawers.

"I am not a slave to my physical needs, John.  Now, would you rather stay abed or attend Lestrade at Bart's?  It has been a taxing day for you, so I shall understand…"

"Wait, Sherlock."  John struggled to sit and collect his thoughts.  Wasn't this precisely what he'd refused earlier in their sitting room, a one-sided performance that soothed his physical needs but left him shivering with Sherlock's chill?  "Was this just your effort to not 'neglect me carnally'?"

Sherlock pulled his billowy shirt over his head but seemed perplexed as to how to tuck all that material smoothly into his trousers.  He didn't answer.

John shifted, dangling his legs over the edge of the bed.  He tugged Sherlock to him by the tail of his shirt.

"You don't ever _have_ to pleasure me, Sherlock.  I don't want you to think that.  Yes, there is little I'd rather do than spend the evening and night in bed with you, learning how to make you moan and gasp, making you limp and languid and then hot and desperate yet again.  But I will understand if we are interrupted and you need to away in haste.  I understand that your investigations are important to you, and what is important to you is important to me."

Sherlock was making a point not to look John in the eye.  John did not force him to, but did stroke Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

"It felt amazing, Sherlock; I want you to know that.  But I also want you to know that you do not _owe_ that to me."

"I know, John," Sherlock finally replied.  His shy tone and pink ears made it very clear that this was new information, however, and John felt an ache in his chest over that.  "I did want to taste you, though.  You didn't allow me to do so before."

"I won't be such an idiot again, Sherlock, you can be certain of that."  John winked and tugged his husband a little closer.  "Now kiss me and I'll help you tuck in your shirt."

"I haven't rinsed my mouth."

"I don't care."

Sherlock leaned towards his husband to press his closed lips against John's, but John drew him into a languid kiss that had them both thinking, _Sod Lestrade_ for a few minutes.


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking somewhere along a month between chapters this summer. It's been very difficult to be in my brain, lots of stress and anxiety in my life. The situation isn't getting better anytime soon, so I suppose I'm not sure how frequently I'll keep posting. However, I will keep posting! I will not leave this unfinished, I swear! :) Thanks in advance for sticking with me and all the kind comments. :)
> 
> Warning for more grody morgue stuff. :)

Mrs. Hudson packed a basket for them in lieu of a proper sit-down supper.  John made Sherlock eat a little something in the hack on the way to St. Bart's, though the man eschewed the wine entirely.  John had repacked the basket for later by the time they stopped near the hospital.  Sherlock outdistanced John with that long-legged stride of his, and by the time John caught up, Lestrade was already scolding Sherlock for startling him.

"This mystery would be giving me nightmares if I had time to sleep, Holmes.  I do not need you sneaking up on me in a dark corridor outside a room full of corpses."

"I was hardly sneaking, Lestrade.  Oh, John, finally.  Shall we begin?"  Sherlock stripped off his greatcoat as he stepped past Lestrade.

John shed his basket and greatcoat just inside the door, balancing the handle of his cane over the edge of a countertop. 

"Mr. Lestrade, if you have not eaten, you may share some of what Mrs. Hudson has packed for us," John offered, gesturing to the basket, which Lestrade fell upon with abandon. 

"God bless Mrs. Hudson," he mumbled around a mouthful of cold beef.

Sherlock had begun lighting several lamps and dragged them closer to the sheeted table in the center of the room.  John assembled a tray of equipment they'd need to thoroughly examine the body while Sherlock pulled back the sheet and started rattling off observations.  Lestrade gathered he was supposed to take notes by the haughty pause in Sherlock's demeanor, and hastily seated himself at the desk in the corner and began jotting down details with a handy pencil stub, crust of bread dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"Burned flesh surrounds multiple contact points where wires had been inserted into the skin and muscle.  These contact points include the temples, the chest region above and below the heart, and each extremity not attached in its original manner.  There are lines of stitching around the neck, the elbow of the left arm, the right leg at the hip, the left knee, and in two vertical rectangles extending from an inch below the clavicle to an inch below the ribcage."  Sherlock pressed lightly along the seam with a concentrated frown.  "The musculature appears to be severed below the cuts, something which was not immediately discernible given the shocking nature of the discovery of the body."

John tried not to laugh at Sherlock's horrible pun, instead clearing his throat as he also made notations on a paper with a body outline pre-printed.  Sherlock glanced over his work, counting out numbers of sutures along each line and approximate measurements between them.  When the front of the body had been examined head-to-toe, Sherlock had John assist him in tipping the corpse to check for stitching or other incisions along the back but there was nothing further.

"No discernible livor mortis," John noted, meaning the majority of the blood had to be removed either prior to or immediately after death to prevent the bruise-like discoloration.

"John, my magnifying lens, left pocket."  John moved behind Sherlock and reached into his pocket.  He also tracked down a small concave mirror to help reflect light where Sherlock would need it.

"We'll start with the chest.  Start clipping the sutures here."

John picked up a set of forceps and a sharp scalpel, tugging gently on the dark thread before severing and removing it from the skin.

"No sign at all of healing or swelling."  John proceeded efficiently and soon they were able to pull back skin and muscle.

"The cuts show no sign of a struggle.  I would deduce that the body, or bodies, present were sufficiently dead when these procedures began."

"I agree."

Lestrade stayed well out of the line of sight, taking notes as the Watson-Holmes' murmured over the body.  Noting 'costal cartilage severed at the sternum' was beyond his handle of Latin or physiology, but he made do.

"You're humming," Sherlock said abruptly as John leaned closer to the body to examine a displaced chunk of ribcage.

"Apologies," John replied with an absent smile.  Sherlock tilted his head up to look at his husband.  John had quieted himself, turning again to the body to prod curiously at the exposed heart in front of him.  There were burns from the wires and the stitches holding the organ in place were spaced somewhat haphazardly.

"So, Dr. Watson, what has you in such an agreeable mood this fine evening?  Or do you simply enjoy a good autopsy like your husband?"  Lestrade seized their quiet moment to inquire about the definite change in mood between the Watson-Holmes' since that afternoon. 

"When I'm smiling in the morgue, you tell me it's inappropriate, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted with brisk indignation.

"When you smile in the morgue, Holmes, it's bloody terrifying."

Sherlock huffed.

"So, Watson, you've discovered the secret of how to tame a hostile Holmes.  When last we met, he was on the verge of one of his piss-poor moods and yet he hasn't insulted me once in the last half hour."

"You are an insufferable busybody, Lestrade, with the perceptive abilities of a gnat," Sherlock snapped, making up for lost words. 

"Ah, there's the Sherlock Holmes I expected," Lestrade said with a bit of a laugh.  "I was beginning to worry."

"If you must know, I took John to bed in the afternoon and it has improved his mood," Sherlock announced haughtily, as if he himself hadn't been the one in the ferocious mood.

"Sherlock!" John gasped.  "That's private!"  His thoughts on the body in front of him fled his mind as his face grew hot.

"It is not as if I groped you in public, John.  In fact, despite your protests, I believe you may just enjoy that."

"What makes you think that?"  John set down his scalpel with a clang.

"Your breathing rate has increased, your eyes have widened, and if I am not mistaken…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he examined John very closely, "I would say that your pulse rate has increased as well."

"Those physiological reactions could be caused by annoyance rather than arousal."

"They could be," Sherlock agreed, "but it is unlikely."

"This is an utterly inappropriate conversation, Sherlock."  John turned a bit so Lestrade could only see his back.

"Men speak of such things all the time, John, and often in a much more ribald manner," Sherlock replied.  "I do not understand why it is suddenly something to be embarrassed about."

"Men speak of such things, yes, but rarely in the presence of their spouses.  And we are hardly in an environment suitable for… pub talk."

John glanced at Sherlock.  His husband still didn't seem to understand and John was not certain in the least how to explain it.

"I think what Doctor Watson is trying to say is that he doesn't want me to see him as your lady wife, Holmes, but as a valued colleague," Lestrade offered from across the room.

"You are most certainly not my lady wife, John," Sherlock declared.  "But you are correct.  This manner of talk is distracting us from our true purpose here.  Stop diverting us from the work, Lestrade."

"Sher… ugh, never mind."  John redoubled his efforts in the chest cavity of the corpse on the table. 

"It is an absolute mess in here," he said a few moments later.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock leaned back over the corpse, all former conversation forgotten.

"Nothing is connected where it ought to be if one was truly trying to make things work.  Muscles are severed, arteries tied off instead of being attached or reattached.  The lungs could be lifted free, intact.  The pericardium has been removed completely, though that may not make a difference in this experiment; I have no idea."

"Would you say this body was pieced together by someone with no medical experience?"

"No.  What stitches exist are small and precise, skilled, but with no real intent.  And look at this."

Sherlock bent closer to see the small gap in the aorta John was indicating with the tip of his scalpel.

"Any blood or fluid being pumped by the heart would have immediately leaked out into the chest cavity.  In fact, is it not odd that the organs in the chest cavity are not utterly floating in fluids?  Did Anderson drain the body before we arrived?"

"Anderson would not touch the body.  Muttered something about devils and walked out when he got a good look at it," Lestrade offered.

"Did the electricity cause the fluids to vaporize?  But that couldn't be true else Lazarus would not have leaked on his victims."  Sherlock began to pace, narrating his thought processes to John and Lestrade.  "No, there must not have been any measurable amount of such a fluid within this body.  But if the experiment that worked, Lazarus, has this fluid running through his veins, why does this body have none?

"And if the stitches holding the body's organs in place are imprecise and would not hold against the rush of the fluid, the only conclusion to be made here is that this experiment was not meant to actually work.  If that is the case, what is the point of it at all? 

"If we draw in the fact that the driver so casually showed us this place, interrupted his master's semblance of an experiment, what can we conclude?  We were meant to find this laboratory, this body, or perhaps even the mastermind himself?"

Sherlock swept up a scalpel and began to quickly clip the stitches holding one of the arms in place.  When half the stitches were released and arm began to completely separate from the rest of the body, Sherlock tossed the scalpel back onto its metal tray with an abrupt clang.

"The arm was held in place by the stitches in the skin; the muscles were never reattached.  The heart was never adequately reinstated into the circulatory system.  The lungs were separated from the bronchial tubes and pulmonary arteries.  What other organs would just fall out onto the floor if we tipped the corpse?"

John and Lestrade had frozen during Sherlock's manic tirade. 

"Why would we be shown some sort of elaborate façade?  Braggadocio?  To thrill and distress the populace?  Surely the multitude of bodies found in public spaces would have served that purpose."

"A distraction?" Lestrade offered.

"A diversion?"  This from John.  "Perhaps the entire laboratory was faked, to make us think we'd found it, dismantled it."

"A warning?"

"An apprentice?"

Sherlock allowed the two men to keep throwing out ideas in case one of them landed on something brilliant.

"An apprentice is an interesting idea, John.  Someone trying to reproduce the results but has neither the skill nor neural capacity to produce those results.  An apprentice would be someone close to the initial criminal as none of the general public has been apprised of such details."

"The driver, perhaps," John suggested.  "Do you not think it suspicious he brought us directly there as if he wanted us to discover it all?"

"But the driver could not have been the man that started the electrostatic generator, nor escaped out the back of the building.  Someone else was there.  The question then becomes: if this was a trap, was the trap set for us, or the scientist?  We need to speak to Lazarus."

"Do you think he'll answer?  That he's capable of answering?"

"We'll find out."


	70. Chapter 70

The driver of the hackney was dozing on his perch when they approached, huddled under a blanket thrown over the shoulders of his coat.  John could commiserate.  He wanted nothing more than to be in his warm, soft bed with his husband by his side, but he knew the night was not over yet.  Despite his nap, the several hours bent over the body in the morgue had exhausted him.  In truth, it had been an overly strenuous day in all its various activity and John sank into the thin cushions on the hackney's seat with a stifled groan.

John had not noticed how weary he'd become while he and Sherlock puzzled over the body in the morgue, much as he used to perform surgery for twenty hours or more on end after the carnage of battle, but now that it was over, he was ready to sink into bed for an equally long rest.  Still, he expected Sherlock would want to question the man he'd dubbed Lazarus as soon as possible.  John himself was slightly worried that the man would escape custody before they could attempt to speak with him, or be rescued by his demented master.

Sherlock climbed into the carriage a minute later, the jostling of the box on the springs snapping John's eyes open with a start.  He hadn't even realized he'd closed them.  When he heard Sherlock give the driver their home address, he was surprised.

"What about Lazarus?"

"Neither you nor Lestrade are of any use to me asleep on your feet.  Lazarus shall keep until morning.  I must think about the information we have collected thus far before I question him.  Beyond that, a night in the discomforts of gaol may loosen his tongue."  John thought he might have hummed some sort of affirmative response, but he couldn't be sure.

It seemed that only a few seconds passed between Sherlock's statement and the cab's arrival at their Baker Street residence.  John started awake at the lack of jolting motion.  He let Sherlock balance him on the carriage step due to a slippery patch on the cobbles.  He made it up the stairs without assistance, though slowly and with heavy use of his cane.  Sherlock stepped patiently behind him, handing off the dinner basket to Matthews before sending the man for warm water to wash.

John dropped everything from cane and greatcoat to his linen shirt on the floor of their bedroom, stripped down to his smalls by the time the wash water arrived.  Matthews gathered these things as John made use of the water, and then crouched in front of the fireplace to stir up the fire and add more coal.  Sherlock dismissed him for the night when he was done, sitting in one of the chairs by the hearth, his greatcoat undone but still draped over his shoulders.  His eyes landed on John as he washed, but with a sort of glazed-over cast to them as if he was not really seeing anything.

John found himself trembling with fatigue.  He wanted to excuse it with the chill in the room or the flicker of the firelight but he couldn't.  It was all he could do to pull a warm nightshirt over his head.  Still, he made one small detour to where his husband sat deep in thought.  Sherlock's eyes blinked rapidly as he came around and realized his husband was standing above him.

John cupped Sherlock's slightly whisker-roughened chin and kissed him softly on the lips.  Then, because he could, he kissed him again, lingering in the pleasure of it.

"John, again, really?  I thought you were tired."

John gave a faint smile.  "Beyond exhausted.  I may actually be sleeping right now.  But I hope to never be too tired for a goodnight kiss.  Are you coming to bed?"

"Soon."

John mumbled, "Goodnight, Sherlock," before staggering to the bed and falling asleep as soon as he was under the covers.

 

***

 

Sherlock sat a while longer before washing up himself.  He crawled into bed in just his drawers, careful not to awaken John, and made sure the covers were tucked neatly about them.  Sherlock did not intend to sleep, but he was curious to note whether John would dream or awaken in the night and the bed was warmer than the edge of the hearth.  Still, he fell asleep in the small hours despite his racing brain, and woke with John tucked up against him. 

Morning had arrived dim and overcast with a chill, pervasive fog.  The room remained dim and it was only the clock on the mantel that indicated the time.  Sherlock remained still and quiet, content to allow John to sleep a while longer.  He listened to the breaths that puffed out against his shoulder.  He envisioned the fingers that splayed over his chest, strong and nimble, surgeon's hands, capable of delicate stitches as well as sawing through bone.

John's breath suddenly huffed and those fingers twitched.  Sherlock felt the body next to him tense.  He quickly shifted away from John, moving up to his knees, and shoved the covers down.  One quick glance had him straightening John's bad leg and pressing his fingers into a hard, contracted muscle.  It took only a moment, catching the spasm so early, to feel the muscle stretch and relax. 

John woke to Sherlock flexing his foot gently and rubbing his ankle.

"Morning," John said after he assessed the slight ache in his leg and his husband's helpful occupation.

"Good morning, John.  I trust you slept well?"

"I slept very well, thank you.  And thank you for staving off what could have been a rather painful spasm."

Sherlock ducked his head and continued his massage.  "In another week, provided we can keep up the regular morning routine, I shall add a series of movements in the evening to see if it prevents or exacerbates the spasms."

"Hmm, your hands all over me morning and night?  How did I get so lucky?"  John chuckled and sat up so he could reach Sherlock where he knelt on the bed.  His thumb traced along one high cheekbone.  John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's mouth, just lightly.  "Good morning, husband."

Sherlock returned the gesture in a rather perfunctory way before drawing away and beginning to manipulate John's leg.  Still, a bit of a flush highlighted his cheekbones, one that was not there from the warmth of their bed, nor pressure from the pillow.  John lay back on his pillow with a satisfied grin.

"I thought you'd bounce up as soon as the sun rose and be off to see our prisoner."

"I haven't forgotten.  I told Lestrade we would meet him at Bow Street at ten.  We have time for your stretches and the breakfast I'm certain you will insist upon but we ought not indulge in more.  Lestrade will not be late.  He has most likely taken to sleeping at Bow Street, given the dalliances of his wife.  John!"

John had begun to run his hand lightly over Sherlock's where it firmly gripped John's knee.  He gave a teasing wink when Sherlock shook free of his touch.

"We haven't time for that, I said."  Sherlock looked so exasperated with John's simple flirtation that John fell back laughing.

"Don't worry, love.  I am as anxious to interview the prisoner as you, provided he was not broken free in the night by his mad scientist."  The last word of this sentence was half grunt as Sherlock pushed John's knee as far towards his chest as it would go.

"I do not think a man of intelligence would risk exposure by announcing himself at a prison cell." 

"While that may be true, the motivations of this madman seem inclined towards exhibition."

 

***

 

Lestrade awaited the two gentlemen near the entrance.  Sherlock ushered John inside with a minimal amount of exasperation, the majority of which had been expended on the driver.  He fidgeted through the shaking of hands but said nothing.  Lestrade spared him a curious look before leading them down a dank hallway through the lower level.  Before pulling the bolt on the door, he spun to face Holmes.

"You do remember the agreement.  No experiments.  No fluid samples.  You may speak with the prisoner, observe him, but you may do nothing invasive or harmful to his person."

"Yes, yes, Lestrade."  Sherlock reached for the door's bolt but Lestrade slapped his hand away. 

"Do not conveniently forget what I've told you, Holmes.  Until proven otherwise, the prisoner is still a man."

"There is little I might do that has not been inflicted on other prisoners, Lestrade.  However, I have agreed to restrict my curiosity."

"The magistrate already loathes the thought of you, Holmes, and me for associating with you.  He only tolerates our alliance because of your high level of results."

"Lestrade, this repetition is tedious.  Release the door."

John stood back from this exchange a little, though he was nearly as interested as his husband in the prisoner.  Relief coursed through him when Lestrade pulled the bolt aside with a grating rasp and a renewed scent of rust.  The prisoner sat on the wooden bench with his back against the wall.  He didn't turn his head when the door opened, unsurprised at their presence given the debate in the hall.  A trencher of bread and congealed gravy and a chipped cup of water sat on the bench beside him, untouched.  The room was narrow enough for John's fingertips to brush both walls simultaneously.  The sloped ceiling was high enough on the far side, though, to contain an iron-grated window the prisoner had no hope of reaching.  The cell was cold and the grey morning light seeping in through the small window did little to illuminate the tiny room.

If the prisoner hadn't lifted his head as Sherlock stepped before him, John might have wondered if he hadn't frozen solid in the night.

"What is your name?" Sherlock demanded.  The figure in front of him stiffened his slump, straightened his gaze forward, and remained perfectly silent.  "I know you can understand me.  Your brain is undamaged enough that you can maneuver a carriage through the maze of London.  You can obey your master's orders.  You will tell me your name.  Who is your master?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the prisoner's silence.  He stepped deeper into the cell to distance himself from the man and give himself a wider scope of scrutiny.  The prisoner was certainly the man whose path they'd been crossing for days now, from the chase through Westminster to the poor boy squeezed to death in an alley.  His clothing was dirty, but the cloth was not ragged or worn.  A long grey scarf was wrapped multiple times around his neck, hiding the cut the mudlarks had described, but the lowest coil was darker, stained.

"Open your coat.  Do you have a bullet wound in your chest?"

The straight-forward stare remained steady.

"Open your coat.  I will see it!"

The man was being frustratingly unresponsive.  Yet he made no prohibitive movement when Sherlock furiously snagged the end of his scarf and began to unwind it.  Its removal displayed the collar of a pink-stained white shirt, sans neck cloth, points stiffened with dried fluids.  Sherlock tipped the surprisingly acquiescent man's chin up to get a better view.  It wasn't one long cut, as one might make when slitting a throat; it was three.  Two flanked the man's neck, slicing across where the man's carotid arteries and jugular veins ran.  The third opened the area somewhere around the thyroid cartilage.

"John, look at this."

John stepped away from Lestrade.  The glassy eyes of their prisoner fixed on him as he approached, which made him shudder just slightly.  If the man was really what Sherlock had said, a construct, a dead man walking, then for all John's curiosity, he was vastly more unnerved.  Raising the dead was the subject of nightmares, of bone-chilling tales told in the darkest night, of myth and magic and horror – a new alchemy for a scientific age. 

John steeled his mind and focused on using the scant light to examine the cuts on the prisoner's neck.  They'd been stitched up with the same irregular sutures they'd found on the body from the warehouse – small and precise, professional, but with random lengths between them.  The irregularity, and the probable high level of activity of the man in front of them, had led to several broken threads and unhealed gaps.  Not that any inch of the raw edges looked healed – they were pinker than the surrounding pale skin, bloodless, but glossy with pale fluid.

"Could the third incision have caused enough damage to keep him from speaking, John?"

"It is difficult to be certain without reopening the wound, but it is quite possible that the incision was made to purposely damage or remove the larynx with that specific intent."

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff of air.

"Open your coat, then!" he ordered anew.  "Your body will have to tell us what you cannot."

The man did not obey, but he did not resist when Sherlock hastened to undo the buttons himself.  Each layer opened faster than the one before.

"Look here!" Sherlock exclaimed, pushing aside half the plain, dark waistcoat.  "There's a hole in his shirt.  This is where you shot him, John!"  A finger from each hand tore the thin fabric to expose the bullet hole.  "I told you that you hit him.  Damned impressive shot from that distance."

Lestrade cleared his throat from the doorway, though the two men ignored him and John himself simply leaned further over Sherlock's shoulder.

However, John's attention was not on the bullet hole, though it was stitched up crudely as if darned like a stocking, pinched together and looped with one continuous thread and that in itself was curious.  No, his eyes were caught by the stained cambric clinging, and in some spots stiffened and stuck, to the expanse of the prisoner's chest.  Sherlock noticed it before John could breathe a word.

As he began to peel away the fabric, more carefully after an admonishment from Lestrade, a new set of incisions appeared.  These were made very deliberately, very shallowly, and had not been stitched up.  The cuts formed letters; the letters formed a word.

"R-A-P-H-E.  What is that, German?" Lestrade asked, his head popping over John's shoulder to get a closer look.  "Or a name?  Like Raphael?"  The prisoner remained unnaturally still, eyes glazed and distant as the three men leaned closer than was safe to examine the word carved on his chest. 

"No, it's Latin.  Pronounced rey-fee.  Anatomical in nature."  Sherlock leaned back with a frown.  "Though Raphael is Hebrew for God heals, which might appeal to our madman, but no."

"What does 'raphe' mean then?" Lestrade asked for the benefit of the half of the room without medical Latin.

"It typically refers to a natural seam on the body, something that looks like a line or a scar.  Like along the roof of your mouth, or bisecting your scrotum," John answered.

"Why the hell would someone carve that on a man's chest?"

"I'm done here," Sherlock proclaimed, standing upright swiftly enough to make John and Lestrade startle back a step or two.

"Sherlock?"

"Lestrade's office."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raphe, the weird-but-true counterpart to Rache, though sadly without Anderson's German accent. I came across it when looking up the etymology for 'suture' and just had to use it. 
> 
> Also, sorry for being MIA. Been hard to be alone with my brain lately, so writing in general has fallen off. I swear, we're actually getting there, though! :)


	71. Chapter 71

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for letting this lapse for four months. Real life has been sucking me down into a dark abyss this year and the depression made it difficult to do anything but get through each day. Things are not necessarily better yet, but I'm feeling somewhat better at the moment. A week's vacation from work helped, as well, and I've finished this chapter and a good chunk of the next one. 
> 
> I cannot promise I won't lapse again, but I think I've got it into my head that finishing this beast will improve my mood, so here's hoping! Thanks for everyone, new readers and old, for being supportive :) Thank you, thank you, thank you. :)

Sherlock didn't speak as they wound their way through hallways and staircases to Lestrade's office, his brain utterly congested with a flurry of details and deductions.  They seemed to fill up the small, cluttered room.  Sherlock paced within it, trying to move his thoughts into a semblance of order with vigorous gesticulation.  Lestrade took his seat, gesturing for John to do the same.  John perched in the corner and watched his husband with a little frown wrinkling the skin between his eyes.  

"Given how anxious you were to question the man, I'm surprised you gave up so easily," Lestrade said.  "I was expecting an hours-long showdown of wits."

Sherlock hissed.  Lestrade raised his hands in apology, though Sherlock wasn't looking at him.  The runner started going through the files on his desk; soon he might have enough to make a desk out of the sheer number of files.  It was a number of minutes before Sherlock began talking rapidly, as if the faster he said things, the more quickly his head would clear.

"Judging by the style of knotting of his laces and the number of holes in his buttons, he hails from the continent, not England.  However, as much as he refused to respond, he readily comprehends the King's English.  Thus he is a moderately educated man, showing he came from some sort of monied background.  At the very least, he is the son of a successful merchant.  The muscle tone of his chest and thighs indicates he has often ridden a horse, and not in a lazy Sunday manner, either.  It is possible he is simply an athletic sort of man, with access to grounds for regular hunting, but I think not."

"A soldier, perhaps cavalry training?" John suggested.  Sherlock rounded on him with unhinged excitement.

"Yes, John, exactly!  Though with as many men who have been at war these last years, it is a rather simplistic deduction to make that a well-formed, healthy man of his years might certainly have been to war.  His bearing and stride speak to that probability, as well.  I'd say German, Austrian, or Prussian from the facial features, but without hearing an accent, and given the constant border disagreements, I cannot narrow it down more than that."

Lestrade set aside the files he'd been looking through with a sigh.  If what Sherlock deduced was in the least true, they wouldn't find the man's name within them.

"One would expect a military man to have a darker complexion on his face and hands, as you do, John.  The paleness of our prisoner initially deceived me.  However, if a pale fluid like that seeping from our prisoner had thoroughly replaced his much darker blood then the translucence of the skin would reflect that.  The waxiness of his skin and the gauntness of his cheek would normally signify that his death was due to some wasting disease like consumption, or a long poisoning of some sort; however that may also be a side effect of the regeneration process.  He may not have had enough of his vital fluids replaced; also, he seems to be leaking them.  If he is not properly tended to by his creator, if he is, in fact, actively working against the man at the moment, then that might explain his appearance as well."

"Perhaps such a transformation requires constant maintenance," John agreed.  "That might explain two of the cuts on his neck.  Large needles or cannulas could be inserted into an artery or vein and the fluid pumped through the majority of the body."

"Excellent, John.  I do believe that to be the case.  As for manner of death, all we can be certain of is that he was not ripped apart by bullets or shells and given his posture, did not have his neck broken by hanging."

Lestrade was tight-lipped as he interrupted.  "You still have not convinced me that the man we are dealing with is, in fact, a walking dead man."  

"Lestrade, your mind, for some reason, blinds you to what you see," Sherlock scolded.  "Anyway, what you believe about him is entirely irrelevant."  

John, however, possibly through a greater contact with the resurrected corpse, showed no lingering signs of doubt. 

"Do you think that he could have carved _raphe_ into his own chest during the night or were those marks on him all of yesterday?" John asked, rubbing his own chest as if the thought of it made him ache.

"Obviously, it was present at the time of his arrest.  The slant and formation of the letters indicate that the right-handed carver was standing above a reclining recipient.  Had he done it himself, the letters would have been much stiffer, less smooth around the curves, and mis-proportioned due to the upside-down point of view of the creature."

"Do you suppose he could have been a willing disciple of the madman in life?  We witnessed him disposing of the bag of heads, so he was a trusted henchman.  He is quite different from the rest, is he not?  Not English, so maybe not snapped off the streets."

 "Why would someone, even a lunatic, perform such an experiment on someone loyal to him when he clearly had a profusion of unwilling bodies at his disposal?"  But it became clear that Sherlock was asking neither John nor Lestrade.  "To see if the loyalty would exist beyond the veil of death.  Because he wanted to keep the man as his companion or servant.  Or perhaps their relationship became discordant and it was a sort of punishment." 

Sherlock continued to pace.  The sudden silence made his boot heels echo loudly on the flooring.  The sound made him think of the London streets, the clop of horses, the monster-man Lazarus driving them to the grisly warehouse.  "That last would explain the recent conflicting actions.  Lazarus was clearly expected to turn himself over to us else we would not have seen the message.  However, I do not think we were supposed to appear at the warehouse.

"If we let him go, he may try to take us to his master again.  If his taking us to the warehouse was deliberate, do you think he'd help us stop this?"

"I'm certain I can speak for the magistrate in this, Holmes.  We will not be freeing the suspect until a proper trial can be arranged and the rest of this mess is sorted."

"I figured as much."  Sherlock waved his hand as if wiping clean a slate.  "This is all an academic waste of time! the autopsies! the notes! the warehouse!  It's all an elaborate game, a show, rather than a true madman trying to recreate a resurrection experiment.  Oh!"

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut.  His mind worked feverishly.  He must have another look at the bodies.  John had said something looked odd about the sutures, that they'd been neatly done, individually, but the spacing was haphazard.  Perhaps they were not haphazard after all.  He needed to have another look.

Sherlock was not so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear John opining that even as a game, they were still clearly dealing with a madman.  Sherlock did not want to listen to it.  John's eyes were upon him and that made it hard to think.  Think.  Think!  But Sherlock didn't like where his deductions were leading him.  Raphe.  It could mean there was a clue in the bodies that he'd missed, an angle he had not considered.  And if that clue was what he suspected, then there was a certainty whom the culprit was.  The mystery would be solved, but the case – to stop the madman – would only just be beginning.  How to stop it?  How to bring this neatly to a close?  That was the difficult question.

He shut his ears; John may have been talking to Lestrade or the window or the cane in his hand.  Still the horror rang in his head, more loudly than John could shout, more deafening than pulling the ropes in a church tower.  More than a score dead, mutilated.  For this game.  For Sherlock.  A creeping of sick dread overwhelmed him.  He knew where to look and what to look for now.

He was terrified he'd find it.  

How could he have been so slow and stupid?  He should have known from the notes if nothing else, their stupid sing-song.  He could see how this was all designed for him, how it kept escalating, making it more curious by the day.  The final realization should have been exceptionally thrilling and satisfying, but it wasn't.  It might have been if it were anyone but _him._   It only tightened his belly into a rock, making him wish he'd not let John talk him into breakfast.

_Putting the cart before the horse, Holmes_ , he admonished himself.  Verify.

"I must see the bodies in the morgue again."

"What for?"

"Raphe," Sherlock replied darkly, refusing to elaborate more.

 


	72. Chapter 72

 

"Go on, then.  I'm expecting a new load of files.  I've not got enough men free to go through all I've got already to put names to bodies.  If I find something of interest, I'll find you."  Lestrade said this mostly to John, since Sherlock had fastened up his coat and opened the door at his first word.

"I do not envy you the task of all this paperwork, Lestrade," John said as he stood from his chair to follow his husband out the door.  

"Be careful, you two."  

"I'll make certain he takes care," John said before dashing after his husband.  Sherlock was already down the hall.

Sherlock led John quickly down Bow Street, dodging over to Catherine Street so they could catch a carriage headed east along the Strand.  The morning traffic along the Strand, however, made the drive between Bow Street and Bart's nearly as long had they walked.  Sherlock vacillated between vehement impatience for everyone to move aside for his conveyance and a heavy, dreadful silence.

"Perhaps I could speak to Lestrade about collecting some samples, nothing harmful or debilitating," John suggested during one of these silences.  

"Useless," Sherlock intoned, waving a hand.

"I know Lestrade objected to it when you demanded the same, but perhaps as a physician, and a man of calmer temperament, he'd be more inclined to oblige.  A proper sample of that fluid may be helpful."

"A sample of that fluid would be chemically fascinating, a singular puzzle all of its own to test my mind, but it would be entirely academic at this point.  After all, I suspect you would not wish for me to replicate these experiments."

"No, of course not, but wouldn't knowing the composition of the fluid…?"

"Not at this point."  Sherlock's tone made this final.

They sat in silence for a few moments before John tried changing the subject.  

"Are you looking for some particular clue on the bodies?"

"I loathe being wrong.  But in this case, I hope I am."

Aside from that cryptic comment, though, he ignored John's inquiry.  John looked at him for long moments, with varying expressions on his face, but no longer tried to engage Sherlock in conversation.  

The carriage had rumbled past Fleet prison and was turning towards Old Bailey when a muffled sort of boom travelled to them in the wind.  A second followed close after, a slightly longer rumble.

"That wasn't thunder.  Cannon?" John asked, glancing out the window.  The people they passed had either ignored the presumed distant thunder or were glancing about in search of a cause.

"No, not a cannon," Sherlock answered, absently gazing out the window at nothing in particular.  "An explosion.  A warehouse on the Thames, perhaps, or one of the ships."  Sherlock abruptly thrust open the door and stuck his head out.  

"Sherlock, what are you doing?  Sit down before you fall out and get trampled."  John clapped a hand on Sherlock's flank and then grabbed hold of his coattail.

"I would not have fallen, John," Sherlock replied sulkily as he plopped back into the seat opposite John.  "I was just trying to ascertain the origin of the blast.  It could not have been further downriver than the London Docks or the West India Docks, and even despite the favorable direction of the wind, it would have to be quite a violent conflagration for the report to travel this far.  I imagine there will be broadsides fluttering through the streets about it by tea."

"Yes, I imagine," John agreed pensively.  He was now the one to thicken the silence between them, keeping his thoughts to himself while Sherlock fidgeted in his seat.

Their hack, having turned north, passed Newgate, and eventually rocked to a halt near the West Smithfield hospital.  "Come along, John."  Sherlock burst from the carriage door and dove towards the building, coat flapping like a flock of ravens released from a cage.  John hurried to pay the driver and limped sprightly after his husband.

Sherlock had already drawn back the sheet covering the nearest body when Anderson unnecessarily elbowed past John in the doorway.  The man was muttering to himself, but John decided to pay him no mind.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Sherlock?  What are we looking for?"

"There's a pattern."  Sherlock did not sound pleased at this discovery, however.  His tone turned particularly scathing.  "I can't believe I didn't recognize it.  I was too overwhelmed, too distracted.  I had to be _told_.  It was a simply unforgivable mistake."

"What sort of pattern?"  John stepped forward and leaned over the body to peer at the black threads, but he saw nothing.  

"Here, and here, see?  You said there was something odd about the spacing between the sutures, though they themselves were executed with finesse.  The spacing is a code, a cipher."

"Can you decipher it?"

"Of course."  But this was not Sherlock's usual 'of course' laced with droll exasperation.  He sounded almost ill at ease.  "I simply have to note the measurements and see what I have to work with," he continued, with a little more conviction.

"And you got all this from _raphe_?  That's positively brilliant, Sherlock."  John beamed at his husband.  

"It's not, John!" Sherlock shouted, flinging his hands into the air and stomping a few feet away.  "I had to be _told_.  That is why the markings on the man at Bow Street were so fresh.  I wasn't _seeing it_.  I wasn't _understanding!_   Whoever this is had to _tell_ me where to look.  I've been so blind, so distracted!"

John took a step back and spoke quietly.  "Just tell me what I can do to help, Sherlock."

"You can leave me alone to take the measurements so I don't make another stupid mistake, or miss something right in front of my eyes!"

John swallowed, but the bitter hurt wouldn't go down.  _I'm not a hindrance_ , he wanted to say.  _I've helped._   And that wasn't a lie.  Sherlock himself had admitted that there were elements of the case he might not have seen were it not for John's expertise.  Many times, Sherlock may have been hurt or taken down an entirely different path were it not for John's interference.  But John knew that Sherlock had been saddled with him, that he had been thrust into the man's life without much consideration as to his opinion.  And while he seemed, at times, to enjoy John's presence, he obviously resented it as well.

Clearly there was a need for a little time apart.  Sherlock needed to be alone to think, to work.  

"I… I suppose I shall go upstairs and see if Stamford is around.  To apologize for running out on him at the autopsy.  Perhaps go to the pub.  Um, well, as long as it's not the one on Pye Corner."  John ducked out the door before Sherlock could respond, though in his mind's eye, he saw Sherlock swirling back around to his work, unconcerned.  Relieved, even.  John let himself have a moment to compose himself, swallowing to ease the tightness in his throat and giving the heat in his face some time to dissipate.  

When he could breathe comfortably again, John stopped an orderly walking past with an armload of sheeting and asked where he might find Doctor Stamford.  He followed the directions to one of the wards where Stamford was trailing medical students like a mother duck.  Stamford caught a glimpse of him.

"Watson, good to see you."   The man hurried over and shook John's hand longer than necessary.  "I was hoping we'd get to catch up a little more the other day."  It was clear Stamford wanted to ask exactly what had drawn John away from the autopsy in such a rush, but that he'd also been scolded for being nosy one too many times.  

"I do apologize for rushing out like that.  But you've met my husband.  When he gets an idea, there is little stopping him from running towards it full-tilt."

"Well, that is for certain, yes, sir.  So, did his revelation solve some great mystery?"  Stamford released John's hand but drew him along in his quick pace down the hall.

"Soon, I hope.  He is in the morgue now, checking on some clue.  I thought I'd take the time to see if you were free…"

"So sorry."  Stamford gestured to the students behind him.  "I'm off this very minute to the London Docks.  We got word of an explosion."

"Yes, Sherlock and I heard it on our way here, and he said it must be the London Docks or West India."  John shouldn't have been surprised in the least that Sherlock had been dead-on in his supposition, but the man's mind never failed to amaze him.

"One of the warehouses has collapsed.  No time like the present to teach the desperate art of triage and emergency medicine.  Just here long enough to collect some supplies."

John straightened up at the news.  "Did you need another hand?" he immediately offered, knowing the medical students were as likely to be a hindrance as a help in the battle for saving lives in an extreme situation.

"If you're up for it, I could use all the hands I can get.  Not sure what we'll find when we make it down there, but I imagine it will be quite shocking to the more inexperienced fellows."  John nodded.  His own first experiences seeing bodies torn apart by cannon and blades were very different than seeing an autopsy, and many medical students fainted seeing just that.

"Where shall I meet you?  I must tell Sherlock where I'm going."

"South east side of the building.  I'll make sure to collect some extra supplies for you."

"I'll be there shortly."  John glanced about and hurried back the way he came.  When he poked his head into the morgue, Anderson again pushed past him on his way out.  John shoved back slightly, making Anderson bruise his shoulder against the doorframe.  _Weasel._

Sherlock was bent over a body, muttering numbers under his breath.

"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me for a minute."

When Sherlock, predictably, did not respond, John moved so he was standing on the other side of the body.  He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, lifting the fingers from where they fluttered along the edge of the wound like the spaces were piano keys.

"Is this interruption necessary, John?"

"I shall make this short.  You were right about the explosion on the London Docks.  I'm headed there now with Stamford and some of his medical students to offer my help with the wounded.  I'm not certain how late I will be, but I will see you at home when the situation is under control."

"Is that all?"  Sherlock twisted his wrist around in John's hand, freeing himself.

"Yes, I suppose it is."  John left the room and moved as quickly as he could to the wagon that would take Stamford and the other young men down to the Thames.  There was no time to sulk that Sherlock didn't seem to care if John was halfway across the room or halfway across the city.  John shoved aside the feeling that Sherlock may not have noticed he was even missing for hours.  He wasn't needed for Sherlock to decipher that code; he was needed elsewhere, however, with great immediacy.  


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up until this chapter, I had a vague notion of the cipher. So as I set upon trying to make it as real as possible, I realized I knew diddly squat about music or playing the violin, though I could fake my way through relatively simple 19th century cryptography. However, since my idea hinged on finger positions on the violin, I had to do (too much) research again :) I'm sure if anyone actually plays violin, they may be able to tell me I've screwed something up, and those that don't might find those paragraphs gibberish. I tried to make it simple for myself and others. I tried. :) Enjoy :)

 

Anderson had, as Sherlock supposed, left the majority of the bodies alone.  Several had been identified and released to the families for burial, but the rest had been moved to the far end of the morgue so Anderson could continue on with his day-to-day corpses, the ones which came down from the hospital above and would not exhibit the same strange lack of decay.  Sherlock pulled back a few of the sheets, choosing the body he would examine first with care.  He was briefly distracted by wondering how long the bodies would remain in their current state, exposed to room temperature (even given that the morgue was much cooler than an average sitting room with a fireplace).  He pushed away the thought for later and selected the body of a barrel-chested man.

The body had not been autopsied yet, the better to not have contaminated the pattern by snipping the black threads.  This corpse had received an amputation of all limbs and a complete removal of the chest plate before being pieced back together.  Sherlock considered a moment and decided the chest wound was the most likely area for the message to have been spelled out – certainly ' _raphe_ ' had been written on Lazarus' chest, and that ought to be a clue.  He leaned close and examined the stitching that marched from shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to waist, across the belly and back up again.

And there it was:  repetition of spacing, here, there.  He placed a fingertip gently between the marks in several places, estimating measurements.  A substitution cipher would be the most obvious of choices, something simple and solvable without a key.  If one assigned the most repeated variable with the most common letter "E," for instance, the message often began to reveal itself.  However, no particular spacing was definitively frequent enough.  Perhaps if the measurements related to the positional numbers of the alphabet, A=1, B=2… no, that was gibberish.  It wasn't so simple, then.  Not surprising.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Sherlock?  What are we looking for?"  John arrived at Sherlock's back.  Sherlock shook his head.  _Focus._   But it was no use.  All he was aware of was John moving to stand by his side.

"There's a pattern."  Sherlock experienced an all-too-familiar moment of self-loathing.  "I can't believe I didn't recognize it.  I was too overwhelmed, too distracted."  _Much like I'm distracted now._ "I had to be _told_.  It was a simply unforgivable mistake."

"What sort of pattern?"  John stepped forward and leaned over the body to peer at the black threads.  His eyes were wide and there was a hint of a smile on his face.  _Of course there was.  John was interested in his work, in the excitement of a case.  That was what made him so…_

"Here, and here, see?" Sherlock answered, pointing out the repetition of the widest spacing, precise and occupying three positions down the length of the torso.  They were followed by several more narrow stitches in each case.  "You said there was something odd about the spacing between the sutures, though they themselves were executed with finesse.  The spacing is a code, a cipher."

"Can you decipher it?"

"Of course.  I simply have to note the measurements and see what I have to work with."  _That was a lie.  If the cipher is what I think, I shall simply have to read the message so patronizingly spelled out for me._

"And you got all this from _raphe_?  That's positively brilliant, Sherlock."  John beamed.  _I don't deserve that smile._  

"It's not, John!" Sherlock shouted.  He flung his hands in the air and stomped his feet in frustration.  "I had to be _told_.  That is why the markings on the man at Bow Street were so fresh.  I wasn't _seeing it_.  I wasn't _understanding!_   Whoever this is had to _tell_ me where to look.  I've been so blind, so distracted!"  _I've let this all happen, blind as any other imbecile on the street._

 _Don't look at me that way, John._ Sherlock could avert his eyes, but he couldn't close his ears.

"Just tell me what I can do to help, Sherlock."

"You can leave me alone to take the measurements so I don't make another stupid mistake, or miss something right in front of my eyes!"

Sherlock's face and eyes were hot and his ears thrummed with his agitated heartbeat.  He barely heard John mutter something about Stamford and make his exit. 

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath.  He imagined an impenetrable tower encapsulating him and the body in front of him.  Nothing else existed.  Gradually, his heart slowed and his mind narrowed to his task.  There was no room to worry about consequences, no thought beyond the code in front of him.

And suddenly, the spaces between the black lines of thread looked very familiar indeed.

It had been several years since Sherlock had thought about coding messages.  It was a familiar pastime while he attended university.  He'd once written an entire thesis entirely in code, a book cipher.  When he'd turned in pages upon pages of number pairs, he had expected to be disciplined at the very least, sent down at the worst.  His professor, however, had been entertained and intrigued, and suddenly Sherlock found university much less dull indeed. 

Cryptography was useful knowledge, so he'd never deleted the skill even if he ceased his dabbling.  Mycroft, with his advisory position to the Regent, was especially expert at it, reading certain forms as fluently as English or French.  However, he had not spent the time mastering a musical instrument, as Sherlock had.  Thus, while the Viscount could appreciate fine music and converse about the biographies of centuries of composers, he had no real practical knowledge of making music.

And that's where this cipher spoke.

The code wasn't exactly a substitution cipher, but closer to a musical cryptogram, with similarities to the BACH motif.  Notes corresponded to certain letters; flats, sharps and naturals helped to expand the limited musical alphabet.  Johann Sebastian Bach, for example, would use a recurring succession of the notes B flat, A, C, and B natural, (written as H in German musical nomenclature), in his works, thus the name. 

This particular cipher, developed to aid in deceiving Mycroft when the need arose, would use the finger placement of either the violin or piano to lead to such notes.  The lines on the bodies, the placement of the stiff black thread, felt like violin strings beneath Sherlock's fingertips.  Or perhaps if he placed his fingers within the spaces, he would feel piano chords in the stretch of his phalanges.  He could read this – he'd helped develop it.

The revelation should have gladdened Sherlock – he had his fingers on the solution – but instead he felt ill.  This development infinitely narrowed down the field of suspects.  Sherlock had only shared this cipher with two others.

An "Oof," pushed a brick out of the wall Sherlock had built around himself; the brick hit the ground with a similar sound in Sherlock's mind.  Anderson was the source of the noise; John had roughly shouldered him aside upon reentry to the room.  _When had Anderson been in here?  And John had not been gone nearly long enough_.  Sherlock had hoped to decipher this body and… and figure out whatever brilliant plan he must come up with to end this _._

Sherlock's mind rattled too quickly down this route to process John's brusque statement immediately.  "Sherlock, I need you to listen to me for a minute."

By the time Sherlock had processed the words, John had already reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist.

"Is this interruption necessary, John?" he said to give himself another moment to catch up.

"I shall make this short.  You were right about the explosion on the London Docks.  I'm headed there now with Stamford and some of his medical students to offer my help with the wounded.  I'm not certain how late I will be, but I will see you at home when the situation is under control."

"Is that all?"  _John would be very busy until late tonight, most likely, perhaps longer.  Would that be enough time to finish this?  To keep John out of this mess?  It would have to be._

"Yes, I suppose it is."

John left the room, buttoning his coat, his back stiff and straight.

No more time to think about John.  Sherlock pushed the one fallen brick back into the wall around his brain and studied the lines in front of him.  Eight lines preceded the first gap in stitches.  Sherlock placed his fingers on the longest of the stitches.  If the shorter spaces between the lines indicated half-steps, then the line of stitches could represent the first position fingering for the D or A strings on a violin.  The second string from the right was the longest, the only long string.  Sherlock closed his eyes to imagine a violin under his fingertips; the position of having his fingers facing forward instead of uplifted and twisted towards him was awkward.  If only his forefinger was pressed to a string, in that position…     _Hmm, E natural or F flat on a D string or a B natural on the A string._   On the chart long since developed and memorized, Sherlock looked for the corresponding letter.  E or M, or possibly B.  He used a stub of pencil to scrawl these letters on the nearest piece of paper.

Sherlock moved to the next set of lines.  Definitely the G string this time, from the lines representing the steps and half-steps.  The longest line was at low 2, representing A sharp or B flat.  B flat would be the letter I, with A sharp representing O.  Sherlock moved to the next quickly this time, certain he'd found the right key to solving this.

The rest of the letters quickly dropped into place.  After the pattern had repeated wholly, Sherlock stopped and examined the letters for the first eight spaces of the cipher, some positions having more options than others.  It wasn't long before he comprehended the word which repeated in the stitching before him.

**M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y**

 


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we last left off, Sherlock was figuring out the cipher on the bodies and John was headed off to the London Docks to do some emergency doctoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long (I know, a lot of you are sadly used to it) but I swear I had about 75 percent of this written when I posted the last chapter. And then what I had written just was swamped by massive flow problems (yes, I had to get out the scissors and tape again). Finally I'm happy with it. I hope the next chapter won't take very long as, again, it's about 75 percent written by not at all having the same sorts of flow problems. :) I swear! :) 
> 
> Anyway, I'm sorry I haven't been replying to comments lately. Just know that I'm exceedingly grateful for each and every reader, whether you are a hit, a kudo, a comment, or an undying fan. :) You're all fantastic and have definitely pulled me along this far. Thank you all so much :)

The wagon rolled into a panicked scene at the dockyard. Up to three thousand men worked the sprawling expanse of the London Docks in Wapping at peak periods, though this was not one of them; but that did not count the men on the ships, the worried families who had descended upon the area to try to find their husbands and sons, the guards trying to protect the cargo from looters, and the river police and local constables trying to keep an eye on the brazen gawkers.

The din from the voices alone was staggering: cries of women, both joyous and despairing; moans from dozens of wounded, with more tottering over on the shoulders of their comrades; directions shouted back and forth between those battling the blaze; malicious blame and conjecture from the dock master, workers and civil servants alike. All of this was punctuated by horses whinnying, unsettled by the madness (though at least they were not screaming in agony as they often did in battle) and the occasional shrill bosun's pipe calling between watermen constables. Buckets hit the surface of the cold seawater in the basin; the water hissed moments later as it evaporated from the heat of the flames. Underlying all of this was the still-vigorous thunder of the flames. The constant deep rumble of it made John feel half-deaf.

Tragedy or battle, it mattered little to John. He had long since learned to put all distractions aside. It did not even occur to him that he left his cane in the wagon as he needed both hands for his case of borrowed surgeon's tools and his pack of clean sheeting. He waded into the field of wounded with a sense of purpose and two wide-eyed medical students clinging to his tails. He assessed the situation with quick eyes, blinking away the smoke and ash. An assortment of medical professionals had already arrived, trying to make an orderly situation out of the chaos – three surgeons besides John and Stamford, at least one military from the tone of his commands, two midwives who experienced no panic at the sight of so much blood and pain, and assorted soldiers and sailors who had learned to tourniquet out of necessity. Several other men and women had made themselves useful, doling out fresh water, staunching blood flow, and otherwise making the wounded comfortable.

The first men John saw had been injured either falling from upper parts of the building from the force of the blast or by flying debris. John set and splinted two legs broken from a fall from a first storey landing, immobilized one arm with torn strips of sheeting to treat a broken clavicle, and closed two sets of eyes.

Later patients were burned or barely able to breathe for the coughs wracking their chests. There was little John could do for burned lungs beyond administering a soothing dose of tincture of opium; it would take both time and fresh air to heal. One man was in particular agony with a vicious combination of smoke inhalation and broken ribs from one of the great hogsheads of goods shifting into him. John supported the man for many grueling minutes until the cough weakened and John could verify that the ribs had not punctured either lung. While the man breathed shallowly, John instructed his medical students in the art of binding ribs. He checked when they'd finished, making sure the bandages were taut but not too tight to enable the man to draw a proper breath. He had, meanwhile, moved on to the next.

After the flames began to retreat – the Royal Exchange Assurance fire brigade had already been on site with a hose and pump to supplement the bucket line when the wagon from Bart's rolled in – John began to see the more horrific injuries as the last living men were evacuated from inside the building. Burns and crush injuries could be quickly fatal if one were lucky, or lingering torment if one were not. Still, he could only take each patient as they came and do what could be done.

As expected, the medical students were generally overwhelmed by the chaos that met them that afternoon in Wapping. John's two partners, Talbot and Harris, proved able enough to focus on simple and direct orders, though, so John utilized them as dressers, showing them how to stitch and bind after him, and using their combined strength to set bones or suppress mobility when needed. They also carried those most severely injured, the extensive burns and one amputation, directly to the wagons to be transported to a hospital, wrapped in wet sheeting or fatty burn salve. Even if those men survived the trip, however, infection would likely take them in a matter of days.

"Talbot," John shouted, his voice a bit hoarse from the smoke, "Find some lanterns. Take whatever you find in the superintendent's office. We passed it on the way in." Talbot bobbed his head and dashed off, thin and light of foot. John struggled on, trying to see as the weak afternoon light that wasn't obscured by smoke and fog faded. Talbot returned several minutes later with two blocky iron lanterns hanging by their handles off an elbow, three small wood and glass candle lanterns threaded like tankards on his opposite hand, and balancing a rather delicate India shade surrounding a tall candle, likely off someone's desk. John allowed himself a momentary chuckle before taking one of the iron lanterns for himself.

The marine police started to appear with lanterns of their own, and a few of the ships which did not have to catch the next tide volunteered sailors with heavy bottomed whale oil lamps. Little spheres of light dotted the quay, holding the darkness in abeyance, but did nothing to combat the creeping cold. Breath steamed in the air; bloody wounds did as well.

John wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, no doubt leaving a sooty smudge behind. Despite the bitter breeze crossing the expanse of the Thames and the dying of the flames in the large warehouse nearby, John had abandoned his greatcoat to one of the wounded to use as a blanket and was considering using his jacket as protection between his knees and the cruelly hard ground as he tended to one man after another. He hadn't spared a moment's thought over the impropriety of the act – tending to the public in only his shirt sleeves – but did consider he had a long way to travel home and it might be unpleasant to freeze to death in a carriage. The greatcoat, he had no hesitation in stripping off for someone in more dire need – many of these men, these hard-working men, were dressed in little better than rags. Matthews, a model of modern stewardship, could be trusted to find him more outerwear without even a word as he had done for him and Sherlock several times already in their short marriage. John may not see this greatcoat again, but he would never miss it. And if the recipient sold the garment in order to finance his grueling recovery, John would not begrudge him that.

Perhaps in that manner, the coat would wend its way back to Baker Street after all.

An hour later, John's other medical student, Harris, fetched his cane from the newly-returned wagon. One of the other surgeons was milling around, taking stock of which men still required help and of what sort. John directed Talbot to finish wrapping the arm of the man in front of him and Harris helped him to his feet. Once upright, John limped over to the navy surgeon, much more grizzled and experienced, and introduced himself.

"Doctor John Watson, formerly Captain Watson, attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusilers."

"Doctor Watson, eh? Well, good work, son. Saw you on the wagon from Bart's. You working there?"

"No, sir. Just visiting a friend and heard about what happened."

"Can never quite stay away from the battlefield, eh? I'm Avery, by the way." He gestured towards the nearest ship. "Of the Calliope."

As John chatted with the ship's surgeon, he kept close eyes on his two medical students, who were now taking the time to stitch and bandage those with less severe wounds. The terrorized air had begun to dissipate and, with it, the crowd. Plenty of people remained, but the crying and shouting had become more muted, the sound of spraying water overwhelmed the roar of the flames, and those who could walk away had done so. Others had already been carted off towards St. Thomas' on the other side of the Thames. Some would be headed to St. Bart's. The dead had been lain out in a neat row.

Stamford saw John and called him back to the wagon. John excused himself from Mr. Avery and carefully made his way over.

"As soon as the last one is loaded, we're headed back to St. Bart's for the night." He must have seen John's hesitation. "We did what we came to do, Watson. We can let others take over, now."

"Honestly, I expected to be here until morning," John said after a few indecisive minutes. Stamford clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.

"You know, if you hadn't married so well, I would be offering you a job."

"I may consider it regardless."

In the end, there were fewer than a hundred men within the warehouse when the explosion (the source of which had not been determined as the warehouse was used primarily for spices and fabrics) occurred. When the final count had been taken, there were eleven immediate deaths, five men with serious burn and crush injuries who would likely not make it through the night, two amputees who would, nine broken bones and nearly fifty injuries requiring more than ten stitches from flying debris. Men with minor injuries still worked to combat the flames or assist where they could; some of them wouldn't even notice their burns until the sweat and grime were washed away.

John had given his name and address to those who hobbled away, told them to send for him if it became urgent, though the distance across London made it unlikely they would. He gave them directions, sometimes many times over, on how to dress and clean the wounds, the signs of blood poisoning, to watch for fever and seepage.

And while he ached now, toes to the tips of his hair, it was a good ache, one reminiscent of a job well done.

"Watson, come along. Wapping can take care of her own."

John reluctantly agreed and hopped up next to his friend, legs dangling off the back and cane across his knees. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his mind. He was still worrying over each of the men he'd treated, hoping one concussion didn't develop into something worse, wishing there was more he could do to prevent infection, wondering if they would all have a warm place to sleep and enough food to eat while they recovered (and knowing they probably would not). Other thoughts wormed their way into his brain as well: had he taken enough pocket money for a carriage tonight (he felt a hundred miles from home); would his leg hold out until he arrived there; would Sherlock still be bilious? Was he, John, still embittered about their moment of disharmony this afternoon? At least many hours had passed since John had last dwelt on his husband's truculence, easing the hurt of it.

Stamford was always a good one to break a dark mood though. "One of my students just sat down and cried when he saw white matter," Stamford informed him in a somewhat jolly tone as the wagon jolted away from the dockyard. "I told him if he wasn't going to be of any assistance, he may as well get out of the way." John couldn't see them, but he imagined the glances the other medical students behind them were sharing. Clearly the subject of Stamford's comment was not returning to Bart's with them.

"Are you going to send him down, then?"

Stamford shrugged. "Might be suited to be an apothecary. He is intelligent enough for the work. I am not certain what he expected from doctoring – perhaps to simply poke and prod and stroke his beard. He ought not be in the surgeon's course if that is the case."

"Don’t forget we were all green once, Stamford. There is still time for improvement."

"I should say so. I suppose I shall have to converse with him about a realistic plan for his future."

They rode in silence a while. The city streets seemed bereft of sound despite the clopping of horses' hooves, the chatter of the pedestrians they passed and the raucousness spilling forth from a public house,. Their ears had become accustomed to the fierce crackle of thirty foot flames, the moans and screams of men, the accumulated din of a thousand voices. The city streets offered no comparison.

"I've a spare room where you can spend the night if you wish, Watson. Give you a chance to meet my wife and enjoy a relaxing supper. It's been too long a day for a trek across London."

It was enough of a sojourn from Wapping to West Smithfield where the hospital and Stamford's small house were located; it was several miles yet across the city to John's home.

"As much as I appreciate the offer, I would rather make my way home." He wasn't looking forward crossing the entirety of London. If he hadn't Sherlock to think of, he would have accepted his friend's offer to spend the night. Truthfully, though, it was funny how quickly Baker Street felt like home, and John really wanted to be home right now. "Besides, I am hardly in a fit state to be presented to your lady wife."

Stamford took the refusal with grace and a grin. "I do understand, Watson. You are newly married, after all. How is Mr. Holmes treating you?"

"Never a dull moment." It was a trite saying, but ever so true.

When the wagon pulled up to St. Bart's, John and Stamford alighted, letting the hospital orderlies come and remove the last of the patients into the hospital. John said his goodnights and made his way down to the morgue to check for Sherlock. He was quite certain his husband had left long before, but there remained the possibility that Sherlock was still pouring over the bodies and their cipher.

The morgue was empty except for a disheveled orderly and an attendant John had not yet met. He enquired after Sherlock and the attendant informed him that Mr. Holmes must have been gone for some hours as he had not been present when he came on duty, thank goodness. John gave the attendant a more polite thank you than he deserved and retreated to street level. He found a hack willing to take him to Baker Street for the coins left in his purse. As he fell onto the seat, he finally let the weariness overtake him. Today had felt like a week.

He hoped Sherlock was home. He also hoped for the less likely scenario that Sherlock was home and inclined to wrap his long limbs around John while he slept for about a day. After a bath. All the smoke and blood had left John with an unpleasantly acrid aroma. He was tired enough to doze in the carriage, despite all the jolts from the carriage wheels on cobblestones. He pulled his jacket collar up around his neck and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.


	75. Chapter 75

Sherlock bolted out of Bart's and onto the street with _Moriarty_ filling his head. The driver of the first carriage he found scoffed at him like he was insane for wanting to go all the way to Lambeth and clucked to his horses before Sherlock could negotiate. Sherlock shouted, "Idiot!" after him in frustration and stalked back and forth on the edge of the street making other pedestrians scatter.

The second offered to take him as far as the Thames, suggesting he'd be better off hiring a punt from there. Sherlock agreed with a clipped, "Hurry, then," and climbed in the carriage, since forward motion was better than no motion, and pondered his next move. Following the curve of the Thames would take much longer on foot than it would by water, but as his destination was rather inland, Sherlock dismissed the river entirely. From Blackfriars, he could take Surry Street and cut into Lambeth from that direction.

The congestion approaching the bridge convinced Sherlock to disembark from his carriage and cross on foot. He dashed across the stone-paved arches, dodging the other foot traffic and avoiding skittish horses pulling the occasional fancy gig. Once on the far side of the Thames, he paused, getting his breath and bearing. New Surry Street, onto which bridge traffic flowed, intersected with Charlotte Street. From there, it was a jaunt along to the terrace end where the Professor lived.

Sherlock walked briskly, perusing his memory for anything he could remember about the streets. A short cut would be welcome, but the streets thinned due to commercial properties which frowned on trespassers and the marshland that hadn't yet been reclaimed. The main streets were a better choice. He found another carriage as he neared Charlotte Street and settled back into the seat in a fugue of deducting.

By the time Professor's home appeared in the window of the carriage, he was strung tightly. His mind had been spinning through probabilities and implications since leaving Bart's, and none of the conclusions were comforting. The sun was distinctly lower in the sky by the time he paid his driver; and Sherlock was contemplating the front door when the carriage rumbled off.

No lit lamps or candles were visible from the street. This was not terribly unusual as the Professor kept to his rooms near the back of the house for his experiments. However, no smoke wafted from any of the several chimneys; the kitchen fires would burn even in summer, and with the chill damp of winter upon them, several fireplaces should be blazing. It made Sherlock consider that the place was either vacant or the inhabitants had no further need for warmth.

He approached warily. His first option was to march up to the front door and announce himself as he would any other day. However, this action could be dangerous. It gave him no foreknowledge of the occupants of the house and what they were doing. Best case scenario was that Marley's ancient presence would reassure him that everything was as it should be and Sherlock would be no further with this case. That hardly seemed likely, however.

His second option was to sneak around the building peeking in windows like a housebreaker. It was a bit early in the day for reconnaissance as neighbors would be about. Sherlock's lingering presence in the street was already making passersby walk a little faster. Decision made, he strode to the door and up the few crumbling steps.

Sherlock slammed the knocker against its plate, making a sound that reverberated through the hall on the other side of the door. He waited a moment, listening carefully, but he heard nothing from inside to indicate anyone was intending to answer his knock. He pounded again, his hand already on the handle to attempt opening the door. Marley was old, but he wasn't so old that he couldn’t shuffle to his master's door.

The door, however, was locked securely. He could pick the lock, but the window latches would be quicker and he could observe the room into which he was breaking beforehand. Sherlock checked the nearest ground floor window. The outer shutters were open and only the sheer drapery was drawn. He could see the emptiness of the room beyond through the diaphanous material and the closed door leading to the hallway. The window was one with a simple latch he could jimmy open with the tip of his knife. He slipped the knife in along the frame and popped the latch. The Professor really must invest in some iron bars for his ground floor windows.

If anyone on the street was bothered by Sherlock climbing into the open window, they raised no alarm. He shut the window behind him and refastened the latch. The heavier drapes he left open so the weak sunlight could assist his search.

The interior of the Professor's house was dusty, as it always was, and cold, as if often was. Still, lamps were unlit and empty, as if allowed to burn out and no one had bothered to refill them. Candles were stubs in their holders. Sherlock glanced at the floor; in this sitting room, one of the few rooms actually used by Professor Moriarty beside his laboratory, there was usually a path on the carpeting of footprints from door to chair to fireplace. The dust and dog hair would be kicked up and disturbed, as the few servants he employed were too aged to regularly take out the carpets to be beaten.

The amount of dog hair had not increased since Sherlock's last visit with John, but the dust had settled into the path; the location of which was still noticeable in the wear of the carpet fibers. Sherlock sniffed deeply – the house was stuffy and stale. The wind howled in the fireplace, the damper still open though the fire was nothing but ash in the grate. He placed a hand on the brick and it was completely cold.

Sherlock moved cautiously into the next room, the one which had housed the massive electrostatic generator with which he and John had been so fascinated only a few days before. The large room was comparatively empty and utterly silent. No sign of the generator or the Professor's presence remained, no Leyden jars, not a single gear or wire. Sherlock examined the floor, the door jambs, the edges of tables and countertops. To examine the hallway, Sherlock lit a candle stub with a tinderbox he scavenged from the sitting room and knelt on the marble floor to make his observations.

"Several men disassembled the generator and removed it through the servants' entrance," he muttered aloud. "This must have happened within twenty-four hours of our visit, given the general disorder of the house, the lack of rain residue on the hallway marble, and the specks of dust within a fresh chip on the edge of the long countertop on the north wall."

Moriarty had been gone for up to four days, his generator with him. It hadn't been the Professor's generator at the warehouse, Sherlock was certain of that. Yet the Professor's had been moved prior to that discovery. If it was meant to replace the one now in His Majesty's custody, then the exposure of the warehouse was something that had been premeditated.

Sherlock dashed through the rest of the house, examining each room. Most of the evidence showed that the rooms had not been touched in years, nor did they hide any bodies (well, human bodies anyway). Even the servants' quarters were abandoned, the kitchen doors and windows locked and shuttered.

_Servants, servants_. Marley was not the only one, as he did not do the kitchen work. Moriarty had a woman that came in to cook, when the man could remember to eat, and take care of the shopping. She did not live in, he remembered, though her name escaped him. No matter. That was easily found.

Sherlock took one last look around the lab to see what else might be amiss. Several jars and bottles were missing: coal tar, oxymuriate of mercury, phosphorus (possibly yellow, probably red), and a few that he couldn’t quite remember since the stores were out of their usual order. Tucking away this information, he left via the kitchen door and emerged into the courtyard behind the building. He could exit unnoticed through the courtyard gate onto a side street.

However, perhaps a bit of discussion with the neighbors first was most appropriate. The terrace's servants often worked in the yard and gathered there for gossip. Servants, like children, often went unnoticed but knew everything. He'd have the best luck finding out when the Professor had last been seen from someone in the yard.

Sherlock's gaze alighted on a man covering cut-back roses for winter, twine and burlap in his hands. When Sherlock cleared his throat, the man, middle-aged with sun and work-toughened skin, started to see a stranger suddenly in the yard.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked gruffly once he'd gotten over his shock and had given Sherlock the once over.

"I believe you might, though you clearly have not worked at your household more than a year or you would recognize me as a regular visitor to old Professor Moriarty."

"Right you are. I hired on this summer. Didn't see much of the gentleman himself, but his cook makes a fine cuppa."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clearly the cook was not as aged and infirm as the rest of the household and this gardener had courtship on his mind when it came to the woman, likely a widow. Well, at least he may know her direction.

"The cook is precisely to whom I desire to speak. Can you tell me her direction? It is urgent business."

"Why does a" (and his pause here certainly made it sound like he was repressing the word 'toff') "gentleman such as yourself need to speak to a cook?"

Sherlock had his lie in a blink. "She has a marvelous recipe for a fig and almond tart that my husband simply loved last time we visited. He's a bit out of sorts at the moment and I thought to cheer him with them, but the ones our cook makes are simply not the thing."

The gardener raised his eyebrow, while sweeping his eyes down Sherlock's fine clothing once again. Running such an errand was rather beneath him.

"Newly married?"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, playing up his pitiable face. "My John's utterly homesick for figs."

"Well," the gardener said, scratching at his chin through his beard. "I'm sorry to say it might have to wait. Mrs. Stratham mentioned something about visiting her daughter in Plymouth. First grandbaby."

"Oh dear, I was really hoping to see her. Did she say when she would return?"

"Couple of weeks, I think. The master left her the money for the trip in an envelope the other day with his well-wishes. A right good chap, that gentleman."

"Have you seen his butler, Marley? Perhaps if Mrs. Stratham has the recipe written down, I might still have a chance to cheer my John." Chances were better that she memorized every ingredient, but Sherlock viewed lies during questioning as utterly acceptable risks.

"I think him and the master went on a short trip. Didn't close the house proper, so it can't be for more than a couple days. Didn't say where he was going, not that Marley's a chatty fellow, mind you."

"Did you see them leave?"

If the gardener thought this was a strange question, he wasn't inclined to ask about it.

"Saw a carriage come and go after dark, and a bunch of boxes followed on a wagon, three days ago now. 'Twas the next morning Mrs. Stratham found her note and she was on the post chaise the same day."

Sherlock nodded, thinking instead of thanking the gardener for his time. He strode off and ducked through the courtyard gate.

Well, John as a young husband came in handy. He'd have to remember that tactic, since young love apparently made people sentimental and helpful.


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, home and back out again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a horrible person, I know. I will scrape and claw to get this done, and the end is relatively nigh, I promise. This chapter was hard for me, I think, because it is not one I sit and fantasize about (like, say, smutty or fluffy ones *cough*) and so I had to work about ten times as hard to not absolutely loathe every line. It took me ages just to figure out what I wanted to say. I am pleased right now, and had already started some on the next chapter. I can't promise much, but I do promise less than four months. :) The crap in my head is mildly improved, and will hopefully continue to do so. Thanks for everyone's patience and notes that they had not given up on me :)

John's leg had stiffened during the ride home and his descent from the carriage was somewhat precarious. Still, he steadied himself grimly with his cane and paid his fare. Matthews had the door opened by the time the carriage was pulling away.

"Would you like assis… a bath tonight, sir?" The footman hastily corrected his offer as John hauled himself up each step with a defiant grimace. John felt grimy enough that he would have used the servants' entrance if it wouldn't have meant a longer distance and more stairs to handle.

"That would be brilliant, Matthews. I suspect, though, that I'll be reeking of smoke for days regardless. Has Mr. Holmes returned for the evening yet?"

"No, sir."

John sighed, but even he wasn't certain if it was the disappointment because Sherlock wasn't home or because his arrival in the foyer reminded him of the long staircase to the first floor.

John set his jaw and hoisted himself up step after step. By the time he arrived, Matthews had already set up the shallow tub in front of a freshly blazing fire. Either John had taken longer to scale their seventeen steps than he estimated, or Matthews was a master of forethought. He had even conscripted the two younger brothers of their maid to haul water up the stairs. John wasn't surprised to learn that they ran and fetched for Mrs. Hudson frequently.

Matthews assisted John in his bath, pouring clean, warm water over him, handing him soap and clean flannels. He disappeared frequently for more water as John scrubbed himself diligently, and reappeared once with a plate of cold beef and cheese and toasted bread care of Mrs. Hudson.

"Dr. Watson," Matthews said, returning to the room with a final jug of lukewarm rinse water, "There is a man waiting downstairs for you."

"For me? At this hour? Who is it?"

"He wasn't the type to offer a card, sir," Matthews opined a bit haughtily. "Said a Mr. Corbeau sent him around. I made him wait outside. Didn't want him downstairs with no one but Mrs. Hudson to guard him. He objected to being made to wait on the steps, but I insisted."

John nodded, trusting his man's judgment. An unknown caller after dark in a house that lacked a full complement of footmen was something of which to be wary, not to mention the shocking murders taking place lately. One could not be too careful. And if Corbeau had sent him, that meant the man was a grave robber, a resurrection man, someone who had few qualms with handling a dead body as a matter of course.

Matthews helped him dress in fresh clothing as efficiently as possible, while John stole bits of food from his plate between layers of garments and gulped down his tea once it had cooled enough. There was no telling if he'd return to his supper moments or hours later.

"You may have need of this," Matthews handed John a heavy purse. John pulled out two coins, both shiny, gold guineas. When John questioned him about it, Matthews gave him nothing but an inscrutable gaze and finished tying his cravat. Not for the first time, John wondered what sort of training footmen went through in Lord Sherrinford's household. John tucked the two coins into his hip pocket and the rest into his frock coat's breast pocket. When he was presentable, he followed Matthews down the stairs, at least feeling somewhat refreshed for his thorough wash and bit of food.

"Some hospitality," came the admonishment when the door was unlocked. John could not see the man at first, clothed as he was in dark and dirt. The man stepped into the foyer's lamp light and John made out a beard cut squarely below a strong chin, a long, thin scarf twisted multiple times around a short neck, and the broad shoulders and barrel chest of someone who made a living laboring.

"I will not scold my footman for his caution, sir. Now, state your business."

"Best not waste dark in the height of the season, but can I not at least come in and warm my nose?"

John recalled this did not refer to the aristocrat's Season of balls and entertainments, but the fact that anatomy schools ran most of their classes between October and April, when the cold weather slowed the decomposition of the bodies, both in the ground and on the slab. In the harshest winters, bodies were set aside for weeks if the ground was too frozen to dig, and could be spirited away with much ease.

"Very well, come inside." John supposed this conversation was not one to be had on the doorstep within both view and earshot of their neighbors. The other residents of Baker Street would surely grasp at any gossip with which the new tenants provided them.

"There's a fire in the downstairs parlor, sir. Mrs. Hudson takes her sewing in there of an evening." Matthews opened the nearest door. John nodded, and their swarthy guest dodged out of the cold air and into the warm sitting room. John followed, leaving Matthews outside the door just in case.

John had not spent any time in this room yet. It was furnished, but only with the barest essentials. Generally, Sherlock's belongings were in the rooms upstairs or in boxes in the lab, and John had no furnishings to bring. There was a comfortable chair near the fireplace, which John took after his guest decided to hunch over a small stool sitting on the hearth bricks. He stuck his raw, red hands over the coals and wiggled his fingers.

"Corbeau told me to ask for a Scot called Watson. You don't sound much like a Scot."

"The accent comes on strong with drink." That was more or less the truth. The man didn't need to be treated to a life story. "So, if Corbeau sent you, he must have told you what I want."

"'E said you were wantin' somethin' special." Sooty eyes turned John's way and the man's face glowed red from the fire.

"Hmm, yes, I am." John tried to think quickly. He wasn't quite certain what Sherlock's plan had been for the resurrection man, and they'd been so busy that John had forgotten about Corbeau entirely. Without Sherlock here to question the man with his enigmatical methods, John tried to conceive his own plan.

"Night's a wastin', Doctor." A grey handkerchief swiped at a red nose.

"I'm going to be blunt," John said. "I have no need of a body. I want information."

"Ahh, well, information is a dear thing, when it's available at all." The man rubbed his hands over the flames once more, appearing to be disinterested in the conversation.

John suddenly realized that if this man was indeed supplying bodies to the madman, alive or dead, then he was very dangerous indeed. He needed to play this very carefully, so as not to outright accuse or threaten the man.

"I need to know if you have been approached with any extraordinary requests in the last year, perhaps by a new client; or if a regular client has suddenly increased his demand."

"Ah, now, I hope you understand that I don't go tellin' other gen'lemen's business."

"I appreciate your discretion, sir. However, the matter is of grave importance."

The resurrection man grunted at John's inadvertent quip, but the glint of a gold guinea coin in John's fingers caught his scavenging eye.

"I deal in special requests, Doctor. Surely you realize that it would take the devil hisself to ask for somethin' I might consider odd."

"I do appreciate that, sir. That makes you quite the expert in this situation. And experts do command excellent wages." John tossed him the coin. A guinea was more than most people saw at one time, though grave robbing paid better than honest labor; several guineas per body was considered the minimum.

The man caught the coin and secreted it about his person. "Wot's this about?"

"Surely you have heard of the body parts being found all over the city?"

Corbeau's man gave a short nod; of course he had, as the news had begun to be shouted from every cobble and dry spot in the streets, no matter how Lestrade had tried to keep things quiet. And as the stories from the families of the missing persons began to appear in the papers, panic would begin to rise. For the moment, it was simply a shocking spectacle to be gossiped about in every house in London.

"Was there talk before the day the torsos were discovered? About hands or feet or anything else?"

"Been plenty of talk, just fun at first. The Crouch gang kicking up a fuss, or a schoolboy prank. There's no shortage of dead, after all, and larks will be had."

John nodded. Doctors who weren't loyal to their suppliers were delivered rather decrepit merchandise, usually arranged in some grotesque pantomime; and anatomy students, once they got past their initial shock, treated dissection rooms with very little gravitas. Students in his year woke with skulls next to their heads on their pillow or their feet looped with lengths of intestine.

"T'other night, Hannagan was telling tales about the walking dead, bodies just falling apart as they go, stumbling about the pub with a laugh." The man gave a shrug and shifted his posture, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands droop between. "When th' papers started to give more details, there was more talk, but no one knew anythin'."

"Or if they did, they were not speaking of it."

"Just so." The man sniffed, then took out his handkerchief again.

John felt a lot of words were getting said but that he was certainly not getting his guinea's worth. "Have you had any new buyers this last year?"

"Besides a whole new crop of medical students?" The man gave this some thought, but John suspected this was a purposeful lingering. John flashed a second coin, rolling it between his fingertips. "I imagine I might've had one request I turned down. But it was months ago, spring." He shrugged. "Not really a strange one, but it were the end o' the season and I take the missus to the seaside."

"What was the request?"

"Weren't the request so much as… 'E wanted fresh dead. They all do, true, but 'e was a picky gent. Din't want no drowners, puffy from the water. No broken necks, neither. Suffocated was the best, 'e said. From his tone, I got th' impression 'e didn't care how I came by a corpse practically warm and unmarred."

Some excitement must have glinted in John's eye, for the man chose this moment to stick out his hand for the coin. He handed it over, gladly. This could be the lead he and Sherlock had been looking for.

"So, he implied you were to murder people and bring him the fresh corpses?"

"Oh, not in so many words, sir. But a lot o' the doctors talk that way, sayin' they'll ask no questions, that they don't want to know. They don't mind breakin' the law, but they don't want t' admit it."

"And what happened when you said no? He let you just walk away?"

"Why wouldn’t he? I cain't exactly go to the magistrate. And what would I tell him that wouldn't earn me a fine, or time in gaol, and a reputation for loose lips? I know my business, Doctor Watson, and I know my place in the world."

"Do you recall the name of the man who made this request?"

Corbeau's man rose from his seat in front of the fireplace.

"Listen, a few minutes by the fire won't do aught but thaw me out before I go back into the wind. I've not been offered a swig or a bone and certainly not coin near what I been promised."

"Couple more guineas for a name?"

The man scoffed.

"I crossed the city in the cold, believin' that you wanted a special order. I ask seven guineas for a young boy, ten for a young girl. Each detail after that is another guinea, hair color and the like. A woman dead from childbirth, with stillborn, is twelve. A _particular_ corpse is at least fifteen, depending on the trouble I take and how far afield I had to go to get it. Twenty if I've to deal with Crouch south of th' river."

"That's outrageous. No information you could possibly have would be worth twenty guineas!"

"Well, that is up to you to decide, I'm sure."

John could pay it. There was enough coin in the purse Matthews had tucked in his jacket, and John knew Sherlock wouldn't care about the money; it likely wouldn't even cross the man's mind. But John couldn't bear the thought of handing over such a sum for information that may or may not yield anything of consequence. He'd heard of very fresh bodies occasionally going for that much depending on the condition and time of year and the desperation and reputation of the buyer, but it wasn't like he was asking the man to risk himself over this.

Or perhaps he was. John eyed the man. He had grown more fidgety as they spoke and John recognized the look of a man taking stock of the various exits of a room. Bad enough if the man left without more than piquing John's interest. Worse if the man decided he was going to get paid whether John took the offer of information or not.

"Have you a name to give me, then?" John moved his cane up over his knees so his hand could take a firmer grasp on the length of wood.

"An address."

"And I'm supposed to trust you, why?"

"Don't care if you trust me, Doctor. Do you want the address or not?"

"Not for twenty guineas." John moved to the edge of his chair, as if he were about to stand and leave the room.

"Fifteen then."

"Ten, in addition to the two I've already given you, with half after you take me to the address and I confirm that you didn't just pick a house out of your hat."

This low offer disgruntled the man and he retorted with a grunt.

"Is that an agreement?" John asked.

"Fine, but I hain't got all night. Hand over the five now, and we must be on our way."

John dipped into the purse and pulled out a few more coins, trying not to make it obvious exactly how much he had left clinking in the bag. "I imagine all yellowboys are acceptable."

The man examined what he was given and, finding the gold coins satisfactory, tucked them into his raggedy clothes with the others. John pulled out another five and put them loose in a pocket, then stood, hiding the weakness of his leg as much as he was able.

"Matthews, my coat."

"Of course, sir."

Matthews draped him in, within moments, a new woolen overcoat with a layered cape hanging from shoulder to elbow. He murmured for John to check the pockets when he drew in close. John topped himself with a hat and tugged on a pair of gloves. He could feel the weight of his gun in his left pocket, and the small reloading kit in his right.

"Do let me remind you, Doctor Watson, that this is the last of the greatcoats until the new order arrives from the tailor's.  Even given Mr. Holmes' habits, we had not supposed the two of you would discard them with such haste."

Matthews had a bit of a smile on his lips despite his dry tone and John couldn't help but chuckle in return before turning his attention to Corbeau's man.

"How far do we travel this night?" John asked. He wanted to tell Matthews when he'd be home just in case Sherlock returned.

"Not terribly far. West Side."

Which meant not as far south as the Thames and somewhere in the more affluent areas of London. Interesting.

"Well, then, Matthews, I shall not be exceedingly late, I hope. If Mr. Holmes returns, please inform him of my direction and that I will return home forthwith."

"Yes, sir."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [After the Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020363) by [darkwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood)




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